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THE MISTRESS 
OF SHENSTONE 

BY 

FLORENCE L. BARCLAY 

M 

AUTHOR OF 
TKB ROSARY, EXa 




GROSSET & DUNLAP 

PUBUSHERS t : NEW YORK 



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COPTKIGHT, xgtO 
BY 

FLORENCE L. BARCLAY 


/ 


The Broken Halo ' 

The Wall of Partition 
My Heart’s Right There 
, In Hoc *1* Vince 

,* ; Wheels of Time 

I i i.) Returned Empty 

I / ' 

This edition is issued under arrangement with the publishers ' 
G. P. Putnam’s Sons, New York and London 


The Rosary 

The Mistress of Shenstone 
The Following of the Star 
Through the Postern Gate 
The U pas Tree 

The White Ladies of Worcester 



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CONTENTS 


omaptbr 

I. 

On the Terrace at Shenstone 


PAOB 

I 

II. 

The Forerunner 

. 


8 

III. 

What Peter Knew 

. 


23 

IV. 

In Safe Hands 

. 


48 

V. 

Lady Ingleby’s Rest-Cure 

. 


61 

VI. 

At the Moorhead Inn 

. 


77 

VII. 

Mrs. O’Mara’s Correspondence 


82 

VIII. 

In Horseshoe Cove 

. 


105 

IX. 

Jim Airth to the Rescue 

. 


III 

X. 

‘‘Yeo Ho, We Go!” . 

. 


114 

XL 

'Twixt Sea and Sky . 

• 


129 

XII. 

Under the Morning Star 

• 


152 

XIII. 

The Awakening . 

• 


159 

XIV. 

Golden Days 

• 


170 


/ 


VI 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

XV. 

Where Is Lady Ingleby ?” 

• 

PAO* 

190 

XVI. 

Under the Beeches at Shenstone 

205 

XVII. 

“Surely You ICnewP’L 

• 

214 

XVIII. 

What Billy Had to Tell • 


220 

XIX. 

Jim Airth Decides 

• 

231 

XX. 

A Better Point of View 

• 

250 

XXI. 

Michael Veritas . 

• 

260 

XXII. 

Lord Ingleby ’s Wife . 


271 

XXIII. 

What Billy Knew 

• 

289 

XXIV. 

Mrs. Dalmain Reviews the 

TION 

SlTUA- 

303 

XXV. 

The Test .... 

. 

327 

.XXVI. 

“What Shall We Write?” 

, 

337 









The Mistress of Shenstone 


CHAPTER I 

ON THE TERRACE AT SHENSTONE 

'^HREE o’clock on a dank afternoon, early 
in November. The wintry simshine, in 
fitful gleams, pierced the greyness of the 
leaden sky. 

The great trees in Shenstone Park stood 
gaunt and bare, spreading wide arms over the 
sodden grass. All nature seemed waiting the 
first fall of winter’s snow, which should hide 
its deadness and decay under a lovely pall of 
sparkling white, beneath which a promise of 
fresh life to come might gently move and 
stir; and, eventually, spring forth. 

The Mistress of Shenstone moved slowly up 

i 


2 


THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


and down the terrace, wrapped in her long fui 
cloak, listening to the soft ‘'drip, drip’' of 
autumn all arotmd; noting the silent fall of the 
last dead leaves; the steely grey of the lake 
beyond; the empty flower-garden; the de- 
serted lawn. 

The large stone house had a desolate 
appearance, most of the rooms being, evi- 
dently, closed; but, in one or two, cheerful 
log-fires blazed, casting a ruddy glow upon 
the window-panes, and sending forth a tempt- 
ing promise of warmth and cosiness within. 

A tiny white toy-poodle walked the terrace 
with his mistress — an agitated little bimdle of 
white ciurls; sometimes running roimd and 
rotmd her; then hiurying on before, or drop- 
ping behind, only to rush on, in unexpected 
haste, at the comers; almost tripping her up, 
as she turned. 

“Peter,” said Lady Ingleby, on one of these 
occasions, “I do wish you would behave in a 
more rational manner! Either come to heel 
and follow sedately, as a dog of your age 
should do; or trot on in front, in the gaily 


ON THE TERRACE AT SHENSTONE 3 


juvenile manner you assume when Michael 
takes you out for a walk; but, for goodness’ 
sake, don’t be so fidgety; and don’t run roimd 
and rotmd me in this bewildering way, or I 
shall call for William, and send you in. I 
only wish Michael could see you!” 

The little animal looked up at her, 
pathetically, through his tumbled curls — a 
soft silky mass, which had earned for him his 
name of Shockheaded Peter. His eyes, red- 
rimmed from the cold wind, had that un- 
seeing look, often noticeable in a very old 
dog. Yet there was in them, and in the whole 
pose of his tiny body, an anguish of anxiety, 
which could not have escaped a genuine dog- 
lover. Even Lady Ingleby became partially 
aware of it. She stooped and patted his 
head. 

“Poor little Peter,” she said, more kindiy. 
“it is horrid, for us both, having Michael so 
far away at this tiresome war. But he will 
come home before long; and we shall forget all 
the anxiety and loneliness. It will be spring 
again. Michael will have you properly 


4 


THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


clipped, and we will go to Brighton, where 
you enjoy trotting about, and hearing people 
call you 'The British Lion/ I verily believe 
you consider yourself the size of the lions in 
Trafalgar Square! I cannot imagine why a 
great big man, such as Michael, is so devoted 
to a tiny scrap of a dog, such as you! Now, 
if you were a Great Dane, or a mighty St. 
Bernard — ! However, Michael loves us both, 
and we both love Michael; so we must be 
nice to each other, little Peter, while he is 
away/' 

Myra Ingleby smiled, drew the folds of 
her cloak more closely aroimd her, and moved 
on. A small white shadow, with no wag to 
its tail, followed dejectedly behind. 

And the dead leaves, loosing their hold of 
the sapless branches, fluttered to the sodden 
turf; and the soft “drip, drip” of autumn fell 
all around. 

The door of the lower hall opened. A 
footman, bringing a telegram, came quickly 
out. His features were set, in well-trained 
impassivity; but his eyelids flickered ner- 


ON THE TERRACE AT SHENSTONE 5 


vously as he handed the silver salver to his 
mistress. 

Lady Ingleby's lovely face paled to abso- 
lute whiteness beneath her large beaver hat; 
but she took up the orange envelope with 
a steady hand, opening it with fingers which 
did not tremble. As she glanced at the 
signature, the colour came back to her cheeks. 

“From Dr. Brand,'' she said, with an 
involuntary exclamation of relief; and the 
waiting footman turned and nodded furtively 
toward the house. A maid, at a window, 
dropped the blind, and ran to tell the anxious 
household all was well. 

Meanwhile, Lady Ingleby read her tele- 
gram. 

Visiting patient in your neighbourhood. Can 
you put me up for the night ? Arriving 4.30. 

Deryck Brand, 

Lady Ingleby turned to the footman. 
'‘William," she said, "tell Mrs. Jarvis, Sir 
Deryck Brand is called to this neighbourhood, 
and will stay here to-night. They can light 
a fire at once in the magnolia room, and 


6 


THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


prepare it for him. He will be here in an 
hour. Send the motor to the station. Tell 
Groatley we will have tea in my sitting-room 
as soon as Sir Deryck arrives. Send down 
word to the Lodge to Mrs. O^Mara, that I 
shall want her up here this evening. Oh, 
and — ^by the way — ^mention at once at the 
Lodge that there is no further news from 
abroad.” 

”Yes, m’ lady,” said the footman; and 
Myra Ingleby smiled at the reflection, in the 
lad's voice and face, of her own immense 
relief. He turned and hastened to the house; 
Peter, in a sudden access of misplaced energy, 
barking furiously at his heels. 

Lady Ingleby moved to the front of the 
terrace and stood beside one of the stone 
lions, close to an empty vase, which in summer 
had been a brilliant mass of scarlet geraniums. 
Her face was glad with expectation. 

“Somebody to talk to, at last!” she said. 
“I had begun to think I should have to brave 
dear mamma, and return to town. And 
Sir Deryck of all people! He wires from 


ON THE TERRACE AT SHENSTONE 7 


Victoria, so I conclude he sees his patient 
en routey or in the morning. How perfectly 
charming of him to give me a whole evening. 
I wonder how many people would, if they 
knew of it, be breaking the tenth command- 
ment concerning me! . . . Peter, you little 
fiend! Come here! Why the footmen, and 
gardeners, and postmen, do not kick out 
your few remaining teeth, passes me! You 
pretend to be too unwell to eat your dinner, 
and then behave like a frantic hyena, because 
poor innocent William brings me a telegram! 
I shall write and ask Michael if I may have 
you hanged.'* 

And, in high good humour. Lady Ingleby 
went into the house. 

But, outside, the dead leaves turned slowly, 
and rustled on the grass; while the soft ‘‘drip, 
drip " of autumn fell all around. The dying 
year was almost dead; and nature waited for 
her pall of snow. 


CHAPTER II 


THE FORERUNNER 

‘‘ 1 X 7HAT it is to have somebody to talk to, 
V " ^ at last! And you, of all people, dear 
Doctor! Though I still fail to understand how 
a patient, who has brought you down to these 
parts, can wait for your visit until to-morrow 
morning, thus giving a perfectly healthy 
person, such as myself, the inestimable 
privilege of your company at tea, dinner, 
and breakfast, with delightful tete-a-tetes in 
between. All the world knows your minutes 
are golden.” 

Thus Lady Ingleby, as she poured out the 
doctor’s tea, and handed it to him. 

Deryck Brand placed the cup carefully on 
his comer of the folding tea-table, helped 
himself to thin bread-and-butter; then an- 
swered, with his most charming smile. 

‘‘Mine would be a very dismal profession^ 
s 


THE FORERUNNER 


9 


dear lady, if it precluded me from ever having 
a meal, or a conversation, or from spending a 
pleasant evening, with a perfectly healthy 
person. I find the surest way to live one’s 
life to the full, accomplishing the maximum 
amount of work with the minimum amoimt of 
strain, is to cultivate the habit of living in the 
present; giving the whole mind to the scene, 
the subject, the person, of the moment. 
Therefore, with your leave, we will dismiss 
my patients, past and future; and enjoy, to 
the full, this unexpected tete-d-tete.'' 

Myra Ingleby looked at her visitor. His 
forty-two years sat Hghtly on him, notwith- 
standing the streaks of silver in the dark 
hair just over each temple. There was a 
youthful alertness about the tall athletic fig- 
ure; but the lean brown face, clean shaven and 
reposeful, held a look of quiet strength and 
power, mingled with a keen kindliness and ready 
comprehension, which inspired trust, and drew 
forth confidence. 

The burden of a great loneliness seemed 
lifted from Myra’s heart. 


! 0 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


''Do you always put so much salt on your 
bread-and-butter?’" she said. "And how 
glad I am to be 'the person of the moment." 
Only — until this mysterious 'patient in the 
neighbourhood" demands your attention, — 
you ought to be having a complete holiday, 
and I must try to forget that I am talking to 
the greatest nerve specialist of the day, and 
only realise the pleasure of entertaining so 
good a friend of Michael’s and my own. 
Otherwise I should be tempted to consult you ; 
for I really believe. Sir Deryck, for the first 
time in my life, I am becoming neurotic.” 

The doctor did not need to look at hiS 
hostess. His practised eye had already noted 
the thin cheeks; the haunted look; the purple 
shadows beneath the lovely grey eyes, for 
which the dark fringes of black eyelashes were 
not altogether accountable. He leaned for- 
ward and looked into the fire. 

"If such is really the case,” he said, "that 
you should be aware of it, is so excellent 
a symptom, that the condition cannot be 
serious. But I want you to remember. 


THE FORERUNNER 


I! 


Lady Ingleby, that I count all my patients, 
friends; also that my friends may consider 
themselves at liberty, at any moment, to 
become my patients. So consult me, if I 
can be of any use to you.” 

The doctor helped himself to more bread- 
and-butter, folding it with careful precision. 

Lady Ingleby held out her hand for his 
cup, grateful that he did not appear to notice 
the rush of unexpected tears to her eyes. 
She busied herself with the um imtil she could 
control her voice; then said, with a rather 
tremulous laugh : ^ ^ Ah, thank you ! Presently 
— if I may — I gladly will consult you. Mean- 
v/hile, how do you like ‘the scene of the 
iiioment'? Do you consider my boudoir 
improved? Michael made all these altera- 
tions before he went away. The new 'electric 
lights are a patent arrangement of his own. 
And had you seen his portrait? A wonderful 
likeness, is n’t it?” 

The doctor looked aroimd him, apprecia- 
tively. 

“I have been admiring the room, ever since 


12 


THE MISTRESS OF ShENSTONE 


I entered,” he said. ”It is charming.” 
Then he raised his eyes to the pictiire over 
the mantelpiece: — ^the life-sized portrait of a 
tall, bearded man, with the high brow of the 
scholar and thinker; the eyes of the mystic; 
the gentle unruffled expression of the saint. 
He appeared old enough to be the father of 
the woman in whose boudoir his portrait 
was the central object. The artist had 
painted him in an old Norfolk shooting-suit, 
leather leggings, himting-crop in hand, seated 
in a garden chair, beside a rustic table. 
Evenrthing in the picture was homely, old, 
and comfortable; the creases in the suit were 
old friends; the ancient tobacco pouch on the 
table was worn and stained. Russet-brown 
predominated, and the highest light in the 
painting was the clear blue of those dreamy, 
musing eyes. They were bent upon the 
table, where sat, in an expectant attitude of 
adoring attention, a white toy-poodle. The 
palpable devotion between the big man and 
the tiny dog, the concentrated affection with 
which they looked at one another, were very 


THE FORERUNNER 


13 


cleverly depicted. The picture might have 
been called: ‘‘We two”; also it left an im- 
pression of a friendship in which there had 
been no room for a third. The doctor glanced, 
for an instant, at the lovely woman on the 
loimge, behind the silver urn, and his 
subconsciousness propoimded the question: 
“Where did she come in?” But the next 
moment he turned towards the large armchair 
on his right, where a small dejected mass of 
white curls lay in a huddled heap. It was 
impossible to distinguish between head and 
tail. 

“Is this the little dog?” asked the doctor. 

“Yes; that is Peter. But in the picture 
he is smart and properly clipped, and feeling 
better than he does just now. Peter and 
Michael are devoted to each other; and, when 
Michael is away, Peter is left in my charge. 
But I am not fond of small dogs; and I really 
consider Peter very much spoilt. Also I 
always feel he just tolerates me because I am 
Michael’s wife, and remains with me because, 
where I am, there Michael will return. But 


14 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


I am quite kind to him, for Michael’s sake. 
Only he really is a nasty little dog; and too 
old to be allowed to continue. Michael 
always speaks of him as if he were quite too 
good to live; and, personally, I think it is 
high time he went where all good dogs go. 
I cannot imagine what is the matter with 
him now. Since yesterday afternoon he has 
refused all his food, and been so restless 
and fidgety. He always sleeps on Michael’s 
bed; and, as a rule, after I have put him 
there, and closed the door between Michael’s 
room and mine, I hear no more of Peter, imtil 
he barks to be let out in the morning, and my 
maid takes him down-stairs. But last night, 
he whined and howled for hours. At length 
I got up, found Michael’s old shooting jacket — 
the very one in the portrait — and laid it on the 
bed. Peter crawled into it, and cuddled 
down. I folded the sleeves aroimd him, and 
he seemed content. But to-day he still 
refuses to eat. I believe he is dyspeptic, or 
has some other complaint, such as dogs de- 
velop when they are old. Honestly — don’t 


THE FORERUNNER 


15 


you think — a little effective poison, in an 
attractive pill ? ’ ' 

*‘Oh, hush!” said the doctor. ” Peter may 
not be asleep.” 

Lady Ingleby laughed. ”My dear Sir 
Deryck! Do you suppose animals under- 
stand our conversation? ” 

“Indeed I do,” replied the doctor. “And 
more than that, they do not require the 
medium of language. Their comprehension 
is telepathic. They read our thoughts. A 
nervous rider or driver can terrify a horse. 
Dumb creatures will turn away from those 
who think of them with dislike or aversion; 
whereas a true lover of animals can win them 
without a spoken word. The thought of love 
and of goodwill reaches them telepathically, 
winning instant trust and response. Also, if 
we take the trouble to do so, we can, to a great 
extent, arrive at their ideas, in the same 
way.” 

“Extraordinary!” exclaimed Lady Ingleby. 
“Well, I wish you would thought-read 
what is the matter with Peter. I shall not 


16 


THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


know how to face Michaers home-coming, 
if anything goes wrong with his beloved 
dog/^ 

The doctor lay back in his armchair; crossed 
his knees the one over the other; rested his 
elbows on the arms of the chair; then let his 
finger-tips meet very exactly. Instinctively 
he assumed the attitude in which he usually 
sat when bending his mind intently on a 
patient. Presently he turned and looked 
steadily at the little white heap curled up in 
the big armchair. 

The room was very still. 

''Peter!'' said the doctor, suddenly. 

Peter sat up at once, and peeped at the 
doctor, through his curls. 

"Poor little Peter," said the doctor, kindly. 

Peter moved to the edge of the chair; sat 
very upright, and looked eagerly across to 
where the doctor was sitting. Then he 
wagged his tail, tapping the chair with 
quick, anxious, little taps. 

"The first wag I have seen in twenty- 
four hours," remarked Lady Ingleby; but 


THE FORERUNNER 


17 


neither Deryck Brand nor Shockheaded Petet 
heeded the remark. 

The anxious eyes of the dog were gazing, 
with an agony of question, into the kind keen 
eyes of the man. 

Without moving, the doctor spoke. 

'' YeSy little Peter,” he said. 

Peter's small tufted tail ceased thumping. 
He sat very still for a moment; then quietly 
moved back to the middle of the chair, turned 
rotmd and round three or fotu* times; then lay 
down, dropping his head between his paws 
with one long shuddering sigh, like a little 
child which has sobbed itself to sleep. 

The doctor tinned, and looked at Lady 
Ingleby. 

‘'What does that mean?” queried Myra, 
astonished. 

“Little Peter asked a question,” replied 
Sir Deryck, gravely; “and I answered it.” 

“Wonderful! Will you talk this telepathy 
over with Michael when he comes home? 
It would interest him.” 

The doctor looked into the fire. 


18 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


'‘It is a big subject/’ he said. “When I 
can spare the time, I am thinking of writing 
an essay on the mental and spiritual develop- 
ment of animals, as revealed in the Bible.” 

“Balaam’s ass?” suggested Lady Ingleby, 
promptly. 

The doctor smiled. “Quite so,” he said. 
“But Balaam’s ass is neither the only animal 
in the Bible, nor the most interesting case. 
Have you ever noticed the many instances 
in which animals immediately obeyed God’s 
commands, even v/hen those commands ran 
counter to their strongest instincts? For 
instance: — the lion, who m^t the disobedient 
man of God on the road from Bethel. The 
instinct of the beast, after slaying the man, 
would have been to maul the body, drag it 
away into his lair, and devour it. But the 
Divine command was: — that he should slay, 
but not eat the carcass, nor tear the ass. 
The instinct of the ass would have been to 
flee in terror from the lion ; but, imdoubtedly , 
a Divine assurance overcame her natural 
fear; and all men who passed by beheld this 


THE FORERUNNER 


19 


remarkable sight: — a lion and an ass standing 
sentry, one on either side of the dead body of 
the man of God; and there they remained 
imtil the old prophet from Bethel arrived, to 
fetch away the body and bury it/’ 

''Extraordinary!” said Lady Ingleby. "So 
they did. And now one comes to think of it 
there are plenty of similar instances. The 
instinct of the serpent which Moses lifted up 
on a pole, would have been to come scriggling 
down, and go about biting the Israelites, in- 
stead of staying up on the pole, to be looked 
at for their healing.” 

The doctor smiled. "Quite so,” he said. 
"Only, we must not quote him as an instance; 
because, being made of brass, I fear he was 
devoid of instinct. Otherwise he would have 
been an excellent case in point. And I 
believe animals possess far more spiritual 
life than we suspect. Do you remember a 
passage in the Psalms which says that the 
lions 'seek their meat from God’? And, more 
striking still, in the same Psalm we read Of the 
whole brute creation, that when God hides 


"20 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


His face * they are troubled . ’ Good heavens ! ' * 
said the doctor, earnestly; I wish our spiritual 
life always answered to these two tests: — 
that God’s will should be paramount over our 
strongest instincts; and that any cloud be- 
tween us and the light of His face, should 
cause us instant trouble of soul.” 

”I Uke that expression ‘spiritual life,’” 
said Lady Ingleby. ‘‘I am sure you mean 
by it what other people sometimes express 
so differently. Did you hear of the Duchess 
of Meldrum attending that big evangelistic 
meeting in the Albert Hall? I really don’t 
know exactly what it was. Some sort of 
non-sectarian mission, I gather, with a preacher 
over from America ; and the meetings went on 
for a fortnight. It would never have occurred 
to me to go to them. But the dear old 
duchess always likes to be ‘in the know’ and 
to sample everything. Besides, she holds a 
proprietary stall. So she sailed into the 
Albert Hall one afternoon, in excellent time, 
and remained throughout the entire pro- 
ceedings. She enjoyed the singing; thought 


THE FORERUNNER 


21 


the vast listening crowd, marvellous; was 
moved to tears by the eloquence of the 
preacher, and was leaving the hall more 
touched than she had been for years, and 
fully intending to return, bringing others with 
, her, when a smug person, hovering about 
the entrance, accosted her with: 'Excuse me 
madam; are you a Christian?’ The duchess 
raised her lorgnette in blank amazement, and 
looked him up and down. Very likely the 
tears still glistened upon her proud old face. 
Anyway this impossible person appears to have 
; considered her a promising case. Emboldened 
■ by her silence, he laid his hand upon her arm, 

I md repeated his question: 'Madam, are you 
; a Christian? ’ Then the duchess awoke to the 
situation with a vengeance. 'My good man,’ 
Clie said, clearly and deliberately, so that all 
lin-the lobby could hear; ' I should have thought 
fit would have been perfectly patent to your 
fenely trained perceptions, that I am an 
engaging mixture of Jew, Turk, Infidel, and 
jHeathen Chinee! Now, if you will kindly 
istand aside, I wiU pass to my carriage.’ — And 


22 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


the duchess sampled no more evangelistic 
meetings!’’ 

The doctor sighed. ^‘Tactless,” he said. 

Ah, the pity of it, when Tools rush in where 
angels fear to tread! ’ ” 

'‘People scream with laughter, when the 
duchess tells it,” said Lady Ingleby ; “but then 
she imitates the unctuous person so exactly; 
and she does not mention the tears. I have 
them from an eye-witness. But — as I was 
saying — I like your expression: ‘spiritual 
life.’ It really holds a meaning; and, though 
one may have to admit one does not possess 
any, or, that what one does possess is at a 
low ebb, yet one sees the genuine thing in 
others, and it is something to believe in, at all 
events. — Look how peacefully little Peter is 
sleeping. You have evidently set his mind 
at rest. That is Michael’s armchair; and, 
therefore, Peter’s. Now we will send away 
the tea-things; and then — may I become a 
patient? ” 


CHAPTER III 


WHAT PETER KNEW 

•*IS N’T my good Groatley a curious looking 
^ person?” said Lady Ingleby, as the door 
closed behind the butler. ''I call him the 
Gryphon, because he looks perpetually as- 
tonished. His eyebrows are like black horse- 
shoes, and they mount higher and higher up 
his forehead as one’s sentence proceeds. But 
he is very faithful, and knows his work, and 
Michael approves him. Do you like this 
portrait of Michael? Garth Dalmain stayed 
here a few months before he lost his sight, 
poor boy, and painted us both. I believe 
mine was practically his last portrait. It 
hangs in the dining-room.” 

The doctor moved his chair opposite the 
fireplace, so that he could sit facing the 
picture over the mantelpiece, yet turn readily 
23 


24 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


toward Lady Ingleby on his left. On his 
right, little Peter, with an occasional sobbing 
sigh, slept heavily in his absent master’s chair. 
The log-fire burned brightly. The electric 
light, from behind amber glass, sent a golden 
glow as of sunshine through the room. The 
dank damp drip of autumn had no place in 
this warm luxury. The curtains were closely 
drawn; and that which is not seen, can be 
forgotten. 

The doctor glanced at the clock. The 
minute-hand pointed to the quarter before 
six. 

He lifted his eyes to the picture. 

“I hardly know Lord Ingleby sufficiently 
well to give an opinion; but I should say it is 
an excellent likeness, possessing, to a large 
degree, the peculiar quality of all Dalmain’s 
portraits: — the more you look at them, the 
more you see in them. They are such ex- 
traordinary character studies. With yout 
increased knowledge of the person, grows 
your appreciation of the cleverness of the 
portrait.” 


iVHAT PETER KNEW 


25 


‘"Yes,” said Lady Ingleby, leaning forward 
to look intently up at the picture. “It often 
startles me as I come into the room, because I 
see a fresh expression on the face, just accord- 
ing to my own mood, or what I happen to have 
been doing; and I realise Michael's mind on 
the subject more readily from the portrait 
than from my own knowledge of him. Garth 
Dalmain was a genius!" 

“Now tell me," said the doctor, gently. 
“Why did you leave town, yoiu* many friends, 
your interests there, in order to bury yourself 
downhere, during this dismal autumn weather? 
Surely the strain of waiting for news would 
have been less, within such easy reach of the 
War Office and of the evening papers." 

Lady Ingleby laughed, rather mirthlessly. 

“I came away. Sir Deryck, partly to escape 
from dear mamma; and as you do not know 
dear mamma, it is almost impossible for you 
to imderstand how essential it was to escape. 
When Michael is away, I am defenceless. 
Mamma swoops down; takes up her abode in 
my house; reduces my household, according 


26 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


to their sex and temperament, to rage, hys- 
terics, or despair ; tells unpalatable home-truths 
to my friends, so that all — save the duchess — 
flee discomforted. Then mamma proceeds 
to ‘divide the spoil M In other words: she 
lies in wait for my telegrams, and opens them 
herself, saying that if they contain good 
news, a dutiful daughter should delight in at 
once sharing it with her; whereas, if they con- 
tain bad news, which heaven forbid! — ^and 
surely, with mamma snorting skyward, heaven 
would not venture to do otherwise ! — she 
is the right person to break it to me, 
gently. I bore it for six weeks ; then fled down 
here, well knowing that not even the dear 
delight of bullying me would bring mamma to 
Shenstone in autumn.’’ 

The doctor’s face was grave. For a mo- 
ment he looked silently into the fire. He was 
a man of many ideals, and foremost among 
them was his ideal of the relation which should 
be between parents and children; of the loyalty 
to a mother, which, even if forced to admit 
faults or failings, sho^rld tenderly shield them 


WHA^ PETER KNEW 


27 


from the knowledge or criticism of outsiders. 
It hurt him, as a sacrilege, to hear a daughter 
speak thus of her mother; yet he knew well, 
from facts which were common knowledge, 
how little cause the sweet, lovable woman at 
his side had to consider the tie either a sacred 
or a tender one. He had come to help, not 
to find fault. Also, the minute-hand was 
hastening towards the hour; and the final 
instructions of the kind-hearted old Duchess 
of Meldrum, as she parted from him at the 
War Office, had been: Remember! Six 
o’clock from London. I shall insist upon its 
being kept back until then. If they make 
difficulties, I shall camp in the entrance and 
‘hold up’ every messenger who attempts to 
pass out. But I am accustomed to have my 
own way with these good people. I should 
not hesitate to ring up Buckingham Palace, 
if necessary, as they very well know! So 
you may rest assured it will not leave London 
until six o’clock. It gives you ample time.” 

Therefore the doctor said: ”I understand. 
It does not come within my own experience; 


THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


2d 

yet I think I understand. But tell me, 
Lady Ingleby. If bad news were to come, 
would you sooner receive it direct from the 
War Office, in the terribly crude wording 
which cannot be avoided in those telegrams; 
or would you rather that a friend — other than 
your mother — ^broke it to you, more gently?’’ 

Myra’s eyes flashed. She sat up with 
instant animation. 

'‘Oh, I would receive it direct,” she said. 
“ It would be far less hard, if it were official. 
I should hear the roll of the drums, and see 
the wave of the flag. For England, and for 
Honour! A soldier’s daughter, and a soldier’s 
wife, should be able to stand up to anything. 
If they had to tell me Michael was in great 
danger, I should share his danger in receiving 
the news without flinching. If he were 
wotmded, as I read the telegram I should 
receive a wound myself, and try to be as brave 
as he. All which came direct from the war, 
would unite me to Michael. But interfering 
friends, however well-meaning, would come 
between. If he had not been shielded from 


WHAT PETER KNEW 


29 


a biiUet or a sword-thrust, why should I be 
shielded from the knowledge of his woimd?"' 

The doctor screened his face with his hand* 

'‘I see,” he said. 

The clock struck six. 

*'But that was not the only reason I left 
town,” continued Lady Ingleby, with evident 
effoit. Then she flung out both hands towards 
him. ^'Oh, doctor! I wonder if I might tell 
you a thing which has been a burden on my 
heart and life for years!” 

There followed a tense moment of silence; 
but the doctor was used to such moments, and 
could usually determine dtiring the silence, 
whether the confldence should be' allowed or 
avoided. He turned and looked steadily at 
the lovely wistful face. 

It was the face of an exceedingly beautiful 
woman, nearing thirty. But the lovely eyes 
still held the clear candoxu* of the eyes of a 
httle child, the sweet lips quivered with 
quickly felt emotion, the iow brow showed 
no trace of shame or sin. The doctor knew 
he was in the presence of one of the most 


30 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


popular hostesses, one of the most admired 
women, in the kingdom. Yet his keen pro- 
fessional insight revealed to him an arrested 
development; possibilities unfulfilled; a pro- 
blem of inadequacy and consequent disap- 
pointment, to which he had not the key. 
But those outstretched hands eageily held it 
towards him. Could he bring help, if he 
accepted a knowledge of the solution; or — 
did help come too late? 

“Dear Lady Ingleby,“ he said, quietlv; 
“tell me anything you like; that is to say, 
anything which you feel assured Lord Ingleby 
would allow discussed with a third person.’' 

Myra leaned back among the cushions and 
laughed — a gay little laugh, half of amuse- 
ment, half of relief. 

“Oh, Michael would not mind!” she said. 
“Anything Michael would mind, I have 
always told straight to himself; and they were 
silly little things; such as foolish people trying 
to make love to me; or a foreign prince, with 
moustaches like the German Emperor’s, offering 
to shoot Michael, if I would promise to marry 


IVHAT PETER KNEW 


31 


him when his period of consequent imprison- 
ment was over. I cut the idiots who had 
presumed to make love to me, ever after; and 
assured the foreign prince, I should undoubt- 
edly kill him myself, if he hurt a hair of 
Michael’s head! No, dear doctor. My life 
is dear of all that sort of complication. My 
trouble is a harder one, involving one’s whole 
life-problem. And that problem is incompe- 
tence and inadequacy — not towards the world, 
I should not care a rap for that; but towards 
the one to whom I owe most : towards Michael, 
— my husband.” 

The doctor moved uneasily in his chair, and 
glanced at the clock. 

”0h, hush!” he said. ” Do not ” 

”No!” cried Myra. ”You must not stop 
me. Let me at last have the relief of speech 1 
My friend, I am twenty-eight; I have had ten 
years of married life; yet I do not believe I 
have ever really grown up! In heart and 
brain I am an undeveloped child, and I know 
it; and, worse still, Michael knows it, and — 
Michael does not mind. Listen ! It dates back 


32 


THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


to years ago. Mamma never allowed any of 
her daughters to grow up. We were permitted 
no individuality of our own, no opinions, no 
independence. All that was required of us, 
was to ^do her behests, and follow in her 
train.* Forgive the misquotation. We were 
always children in mamma*s eyes. We grew 
tall; we grew good-looking; but we never 
grew up. We remained children, to be 
snubbed, domineered over, and bullied. My 
sisters, who were good children, had plenty 
of jam and cake; and, eventually, husbands 
after mamma*s own heart were foimd for 
them. Perhaps you know how those marriages 
have turned out? ’* 

Lady Ingleby paused, and the doctor made 
an almost imperceptible sign of assent. One 
of the ladies in question, a most unhappy 
woman, was imder treatment in his Mental 
Sanatorium at that very moment; but he 
doubted .whether Lady Ingleby knew it. 

''I was the black sheep,** continued Myra, 
finding no remark fortl^coming. ''Nothing I 
did was ever right ; everything I did was always 


WHAT PETER KNEW 


33 


wrong. When Michael met me I was nearly 
eighteen, the height I am now, but in the 
nursery, as regards mental development or 
knowledge of the world ; and , as regards 
character, a most imhappy, utterly reckless, 
little child. Michael's love, when at last I 
realised it, was wonderful to me. Tenderness, 
appreciation, consideration, were experiences 
so novel that they would have turned my 
head, had not the elation they produced been 
counterbalanced by a gratitude which was 
overwhelming; and a terror of being handed 
back to mamma, which would have made me 
agree to anything. Years later, Michael told 
me that what first attracted him to me was 
a look in my eyes just like the look in those of 
a favourite spaniel of his, who was always in 
trouble with everyone else, and had just been 
accidentally shot, by a keeper. Michael told 
me this himself ; and really thought I should 
be pleased! Somehow it gave me the key to 
my standing with him — ^just that of a very 
tenderly-loved pet dog. No words can say 
how good he has always been to me. If I 


34 


THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


lost him, I should lose my all — everything 
which makes home, home; and life a safe, and 
certain, thing. But if he lost little Peter, it 
would be a more real loss to him than if 
he lost me; because Peter is more intelligent 
for his size, and really more of an actual 
companion to Michael, than I am. Many 
a time, when he has passed through my room 
on the way to his, with Peter tucked securely 
under his arm; and saying, ‘Good-night, my 
dear,* to me, has gone in and shut the door, 
I have felt I could slay little Peter, because he 
had the better place, and because he looked at 
me through his curls, as he was carried away, 
as if to say: ^You are out of it!’ Yet I knew 
I had all I deserved; and Michael’s kindness 
and goodness and patience were beyond 
words. Only — only — ah, can you under- 
stand? I would sooner he had found fault 
and scolded ; I would sooner have been shaken 
and called a fool, than smiled at, and left 
alone. I was in the nursery when he married 
me; I have been in the school-room ever since, 
trying to learn life’s lessons, alone, without a 


WHAT PETER KNEW 


35 


teacher. Nothing has helped me to grow up. 
Michael has always told me I am perfect, and 
everything I do is perfect, and he does not 
want me different. But I have never really 
shared his life and interests. If I make 
idiotic mistakes he does not correct me. 
I have to find them out, when I repeat them 
before others. When I made that silly 
blunder about the brazen serpent, you so 
kindly put me right. Michael would have 
smiled and let it pass as not worth correcting; 
then I should have repeated it before a room- 
ful of people, and wondered why they looked 
amused ! Ah, but what do I care for people, or 
the world! It is my true place beside Michael 
I want to win. I want to ‘grow up imto him 
in all things.* Yes, I know that is a text. I 
am famous for misquotations, or rather, mis- 
applications. But it expresses my meaning — 
as the duchess remarks, when she has said 
something mild under provocation, and her 
parrot swears! — ^And now tell me, dear wise 
kind doctor; you, who have been the lifelong 
friend of that grand creature, Jane Dalmain; 


36 


THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


you, who have done so much for dozens of 
women I know; tell me how I can cease to be 
inadequate towards my husband/' 

The passionate flow of words ceased sud- 
denly. Lady Ingleby leaned back against the 
cushions. 

Peter sighed in his sleep. 

A clock in the hall chimed the quarter 
after six. 

The doctor looked steadily into the fire. 
He seemed to find speech difficult. 

At last he said, in a voice which shook 
slightly: ''Dear Lady Ingleby, he did not — • 
he does not — ^think you so." 

"No, no!" she cried, sitting forward again. 
" He thinks of me nothing but what is kind and 
right. But he never expected me to be more 
than a nice, affectionate, good-looking dog: 
and I — I have not known how to be bettei 
than his expectations. But, although he is 
so patient, he sometimes grows unutterably 
tired of being with me. All other pet creatures 
are dumb ; but I love talking, and I constantly 
say silly things, which do not sound silly, until 


WHAT PETER KNEW 


37 


I have said them. He goes off to Norway, 
fishing; to the Engadine, moimtain-climbing ; 
to this horrid war, risking his precious life. 
Anywhere to get away alone; anywhere 


“Hush,” said the doctor, and laid a firm 
brown hand, for a moment, on the white 
fluttering fingers. “You are overwrought by 
the suspense of these past weeks. You know 
perfectly well that Lord Ingleby volimteered 
for this border war because he was so keen on 
experimenting with his new explosives, and on 
trying these ideas for using electricity in 
modem warfare, at which he has worked so 
long.” 

“Oh, yes, I know,” said Myra, smiling wist- 
fully. “Tiresome things, which keep him 
hours in his laboratory. And he has some 
very clever plan for long distance signalling 
from fort to fort — ^hieroglyphics in the sky, 
is n’t it? you know what I mean. But the 
fact that he volimteered into all this danger, 
merely to do experimenting, makes it harder 
to bear than if he had been at the head of his 


38 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


old regiment, and gone at the imperative call 
of duty. However — nothing matters so long 
as he comes home safely. And now you — you, 
Sir Deryck — must help me to become a real 
helpmeet to Michael. Tell me how you 
helped — oh, very well, we will not mention 
names. But give me wise advice. Give me 
hope; give me courage. Make me strong.’' 

The doctor looked at the clock; and, even 
as he looked, the chimes in the hall rang out 
the half-hour. 

“You have not yet told me,” he said, 
speaking very slowly, as if listening for some 
other soimd; “you have not yet told me, your 
second reason for leaving town.” 

“Ah,” said Lady Ingleby, and her voice 
held a deeper, older, tone — a note bordering 
on tragedy. “Ah! I left town. Sir Deryck, 
because other people were teaching me love- 
lessons, and I did not want to learn them 
apart from Michael. I stayed with Jane 
Dalmain and her blind husband, before they 
went back to Gleneesh. You remember? 
They were in town for the production of his 


WHAT PETER KNEW 


39 


symphony. I saw that ideal wedded life, 
and I realised something of what a perfect 
mating of souls could mean. And then — 
well, there were others; people who did not 
understand how wholly I am Michael’s; 
nothing actually wrong; but not so fresh and 
youthful as Billy’s innocent adoration; and I 
feared I should accidentally learn what only 
Michael must teach. Therefore I fled away! 
Oh, doctor; if I ever learned from another 
man, that which I have failed to learn from 
my own husband, I should lie at Michael’s 
feet and ii^iplore him to kill me!” 

The doctor looked up at the portrait over 
the mantelpiece. The calm passionless face 
smiled blandly at the tiny dog. One sensitive 
hand, white and delicate as a woman’s, was 
raised, forefinger uplifted, gently holding the 
attention of the little animal’s eager eyes. 
The magic skill of the artist supplied the 
doctor with the key to the problem. A 
woman — as mate, as wife, as part of himself, 
was not a necessity in the life of this thinker, 
inventor, scholar, saint. He could appreciate 


40 


THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


dumb devotion; he was capable of unlimited 
kindness, leniency, patience, toleration. But 
woman and dog alike, remained outside the 
citadel of his inner self. Had not her eyes re- 
sembled those of a favourite spaniel, he would 
very probably not have wedded the lovely 
woman who, now, during ten years had borne 
his name; and even then he might not have 
done so, had not the tyranny of her mother, 
awakening his instinct of protection towards 
the weak and oppressed, aroused in him a 
determination to withstand that tyranny, and 
to carry her off triumphantly to freedom. 

The longer the doctor looked, the more 
persistently the picture said: ''We two; and 
where does she come in?’' — Righteous wrath 
arose in the heart of Deryck Brand; for his 
ideal as to man’s worship of woman was a 
high one. As he thought of the closed door; 
of the lonely wife, humbly jealous of a toy- 
poodle, yet blaming herself only, for her lone- 
liness, his jaw set, and his brow darkened. 
And all the while he listened for a sound from 
the outer world which must soon come. 


WHAT PETER KNEW 


41 


Lady Ingleby noticed his intent gaze, and, 
leaning forward, also looked up at the picture. 
The firelight shone on her lovely face, and on 
the gleaming softness of her hair. Her lips 
parted in a tender smile; a pure radiance shone 
from her eyes. 

'‘Ah, he is so good!’' she said. “In all the 
years, he has never once spoken harshly to 
me. And see how lovingly he looks at Peter, 
who really is a most unattractive little dog. 
Did you ever hear the duchess’s hon mot 
about Michael? He and I once stayed to- 
gether at Overdene; but she did not ask us 
again until he was abroad, fishing in Norway; 
so of course I went by myself. The duchess 
always does those things frankly, and explains 
them. Therefore on this occasion she said: 
‘My dear, I enjoy a visit from you; but you 
must only come, when you can come alone. 
I will never luadertake again, to live up to 
your good Michael. It really was a case of 
St. Michael and All Angels. He was 
St. Michael, and we had to be all angels!’ 
Wasn’t it like the duchess; and a beautiful 


42 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


testimony to Michaers consistent goodness? 
Oh, I wish you knew him better. And, for 
the matter of that, I wish I knew him better! 
But after all I am his wife. Nothing can rob 
me of that. And don’t you think — when 
Michael comes home this time — somehow, all 
will be different; better than ever before?” 

The hall clock chimed three-quarters after 
the hour. 

The clang of a bell resounded through the 
silent house. 

Peter sat up, and barked once, sharply. 

The doctor rose and stood with his back to 
the fire, facing the door. 

Myra’s question remained imanswered. 

Hurried steps approached. 

A footman entered, with a telegram for 
Lady Ingleby. 

She took it with calm fingers, and without 
the usual sinking of the heart from sudden 
apprehension. Her mind was full of the 
conversation of the moment, and the doctor’s 
presence made her feel so strong and safe; so 
sure of no approach of evil tidings. 


PVHAT PETER KNEW 


43 


She did not hear Sir Deryck’s quiet voice 
say to the man: “You need not wait/’ 

As the door closed, the doctor turned away, 
and stood looking into the fire. 

The room was very still. 

Lady Ingleby opened her telegram, unfolded 
it slowly, and read it through twice. 

Afterwards she sat on, in such absolute 
silence that, at length, the doctor turned and 
looked at her. 

She met his eyes, quietly. 

“Sir Deryck,” she said, “it is from the War 
)ffice. They tell me Michael has been killed. 
Do you think it is true?” 

She handed him the telegram. Taking it 
from her, he read it in silence. Then: “Dear 
Lady Ingleby,” he said, very gently, “I fear 
there is no doubt. He has given his life for 
his country. You will be as brave in giving 
him, as he would wish his wife to be.” 

Myra smiled; but the doctor saw her face 
slowly whiten. 

“Yes,” she said; “oh, yes! I will not fail 
him. I will be adequate — at last.” Then, as 


44 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


if a sudden thought had struck her: Did you 
know of this ? Is it why you came ? 

''Yes/* said the doctor, slowly. "The 
duchess sent me. She was at the War Office 
this morning when the news came in, inquiring 
for Ronald Ingram, who has been wotmded, 
and is down with fever. She telephoned for 
me, and insisted on the telegram being kept 
back until six o’clock this evening, in order to 
give me time to get here, and to break the 
news to you first, if it seemed well." 

Myra gazed at him, wide-eyed. ' ' And you let 
me say all that, about Michael and myself?" 

"Dear lady," said the doctor, and few 
had ever heard that deep firm voice, so nearly 
tremulous, " I could not stop you. But you 
did not say one word which was not absolutely 
loving and loyal." 

"How could I have?" queried Myra, her 
face growing whiter, and her eyes wider and 
more bright. "I have never had a thought 
which was not loyal and loving." 

"I know," said the doctor. "Poor brave 
heart, — I know." 


WHAT PETER KNEW 


45 


Myra took up the telegram, and read it 
again. 

“Killed,’' she said; killed. I wish I knew 
how.” 

“The duchess is ready to come to you 
immediately, if you would like to have her,” 
suggested the doctor. 

“No,” said Myra, smiling vaguely. “No; 
I think not. Not unless dear mamma comes. 
If that happens we must wire for the duchess, 
because now — now Michael is away — she is 
the only person who can cope with mamma. 
But please not, otherwise; because—rwell, 
you see, — she said she could not live up to 
Michael; and it does not sotmd funny now.” 

“Is there anybody you would wish sent for 
at once?” inquired the doctor, wondering 
how much larger and brighter those big grey 
eyes could grow; and whether any living face 
had ever been so absolutely colourless. 

“Anybody I should wish sent for at once? 
I don’t know. Oh, yes — there is one person; 
if she could come. Jane — ^you know? Jane 
Dalmain. I always say she is like the bass of 


46 THE MrSTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


a tune; so solid, and satisfactory, and beneath 
one. Nothing very bad could happen, if 
Jane were there. But of coturse this has 
happened ; has n’t it ? ” 

The doctor sat down. 

'‘I wired to Gleneesh this morning,” he 
said. ”Jane will be here early to-morrow.” 

”Then lots of people knew before I did?” 
said Lady Ingleby. 

The doctor did not answer. 

She rose, and stood looking down into the 
fire; her tall graceful figure drawn up to its 
full height, her back to the doctor, whose 
watchful eyes never left her for an instant. 

Suddenly she looked across to Lord Ingle- 
by’s chair. 

”And I believe Peter knew,” she said, in a 
loud, high-pitched voice. ”Good heavens! 
Peter knew; and refused his food because 
Michael was dead. And I said he had 
dyspepsia! Michael, oh Michael! Your wife 
didn’t know you were dead; but yoiu* dog 
knew! Oh Michael, Michael! Little Peter 
knew!” 


WHAT PETER KNEW 


47 


She lifted her arms toward the picture cS. 
the big man and the tiny dog. 

Then she swayed backward. 

The doctor caught her, as she fell. 


CHAPTER IV 


IN SAFE HANDS 

A LL through the night Lady Ingleby lay 
^ gazing before her, with bright unseeing 
eyes. 

The quiet woman from the Lodge, who had 
been, before her own marriage, a devoted 
maid-companion to Lady Ingleby, arrived in 
speechless sorrow, and helped the doctor 
tenderly with all there was to do. 

But when consciousness returned, and 
realisation, they were accompanied by no 
natural expressions of grief; simply a settled 
stony silence; the white set face; the bright 
unseeing eyes. 

Margaret O’Mara knelt, and wept, and 
prayed, kissing the folded hands upon the 
silken quilt. But Lady Ingleby merely smiled 

48 


IN SAFE HANDS 


49 


vaguely; and once she said: “Hush, my dear 
Maggie. At last we will be adequate.” 

Several times during the night the doctor 
came, sitting silently beside the bed, with 
watchful eyes and quiet touch. Myra scarcely 
noticed him, and again he wondered how 
much larger the big grey eyes would grow, in 
the pale setting of that lovely face. 

Once he signed to the other watcher to 
follow him into the corridor. Closing the 
door, he turned and faced her. He liked this 
quiet woman, in her simple black nferino 
gown, linen collar and cuffs, and neatly 
braided hair. There was an air of refinement 
and gentle self-control about her, which 
pleased the doctor. 

“Mrs. O'Mara,” he said; “she must weep, 
and she must sleep.” 

“She does not weep easily, sir,” replied 
Margaret O'Mara, “and I have known her 
to lie widely awake throughout an entire 
night with less cause for sorrow than this.” 

“Ah,” said the doctor; and he looked 
keenly at the woman from the Lodge. “I 


50 


THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


wonder what else you have known?” he 
thought. But he did not voice the conjecture. 
Deryck Brand rarely asked questions of a 
third person. His patients never had to find 
out that his knowledge of them came through 
the gossip or the breach of confidence - f 
others. 

At last he could allow that fixed unseeing 
gaze no longer. He decided to do what 
was necessary, with a quiet nod, in response 
to Margaret O'Mara’s imploring look. He 
turned back the loose sleeve of the silk night- 
dress, one firm hand grasped the soft arm be- 
neath it; the other passed over it for a moment 
with swift skilful pressure. Even Margaret’s 
anxious eyes saw nothing more; and after- 
wards Myra often wondered what could have 
caused that tiny scar upon the whiteness of 
her arm. 

Before long she was quietly asleep. The 
doctor stood looking down upon her. There 
was tragedy to him in this perfect loveliness. 
Now the clear candour of the grey eyes was 
veiled, the childlike look was no longer there. 


IN SAFE HANDS 


51 


It was the face of a woman — and of a woman 
who had lived, and who had suffered. 

Watching it, the doctor reviewed the history 
of those ten years of wedded life; piecing to- 
gether that which she herself had told him; 
his own shrewd surmisings; and facts, which 
were common knowledge. 

So much for the past. The present, for a 
few hours at least, was merciful oblivion. 
What would the future bring? She had 
bravely and faithfully put from her all temp- 
tation to learn the glory of life, and the com- 
pleteness of love, from any save from her own 
husband. And he had failed to teach. Can 
the deaf teach harmony, or the blind reveal 
the beauties of blended colour? 

But the future held no such limitations. 
The ‘'garden enclosed’' was no longer barred 
against all others by an owner who ignored 
its fragrance. The gate would be on the 
latch, though all unconscious until an eager 
hand pressed it, that its bolts and bars were 
gone, and it dare swing open wide. 

“Ah,” mused the doctor. “Will the right 


52 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


man pass by? Youth teaches youth; but is 
there a man amongst us strong enough, and 
true enough, and pure enough, to teach this 
woman, nearing thirty, lessons which should 
have been learned during the golden days of 
girlhood. Surely somewhere on this earth 
the One Man walks, and works, and waits, 
to whom she is to be the One Woman? God 
send him her way, in the fulness of time.'’ 

And in that very hour — ^while at last My±ci 
slept, and the doctor watched, and mused, 
and wondered — ^in that very hour, under an 
Eastern sky, a strong man, sick of life, worn 
and disillusioned, fighting a deadly fever, in 
the sultry atmosphere of a soldier's tent, 
cried out in bitterness of soul: '‘O God, let 
me die!" Then added the " never- the-less " 
which always qualifies a brave soul’s prayer 
for immunity from pain: ^‘Unless — unless, O 
God, there be still some work left on this earth 
which only I can do.” 

And the doctor had just said: '‘Send him 
her way, O God, in the fulness of time." 


IN SAFE HANDS 


53 


The two prayers reached the Throne of 
Omniscience together. 

*•••••• 

Deryck Brand, looking up, saw the quiet 
eyes of Margaret O’ Mara gazing gratefully 
at him, across the bed. ''Thank you,” she 
whispered. 

He smiled. "Never to be done lightly, Mrs. 
O’Mara,” he said. "Everything else should 
be tried first. But there are exceptions to the 
strictest rules, and it is fatal weakness to 
hesitate when confronted by the exception. 
Send for me, when she wakes; and, meanwhile, 
lie down on that couch yourself and have 
some sleep. Y ou are worn out . ’ ’ 

The doctor turned away; but not before he 
had caught the sudden look of diimb anguish 
which leaped into those quiet eyes. He 
reached the door; paused a moment; then 
came back. 

"Mrs. O’ Mara,” he said, with a hand upon 
her shoulder, "you have a sorrow of yoiu: 
own?” 


54 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


She drew away from him, in terror. ''Oh, 
hush!'' she whispered. "Don't ask! Don't 
unnerve me, sir. Help me to think of her, 
only." Then, more calmly: "But of course I 
shall think of none but her, while she needs 
me. Only — onl}', sir — as you are so kind — " 
she drew from her bosom a crumpled telegram, 
and handed it to the doctor. "Mine came 
at the same time as hers," she said, simply. 

The doctor tmfolded the War Office message. 

Regret to report Sergeant O' Mara killed in 
assault on Targai yesterday. 

"He was a good husband," said Margaret 
O' Mara, simply; "and we were very happy." 

The doctor held out his hand. "I am 
proud to have met you, Mrs. O'Mara. 
This seems to me the bravest thing I have 
ever known a woman do." 

She smiled through her tears. "Thank 
you, sir," she said, tremulously. "But it is 
easier to bear my own sorrow, when I have 
work to do for her." 

"God Himself comfort you, my friend," 


IN SAFE HANDS 


55 


feaid Deryck Brand, and it was all he could 
i|trust his voice to say; nor was he ashamed 
[that he had to fumble blindly for the handle 
jof the door. 


The doctor had finished breakfast, and was 
asking Groatley for a time-table, when word 
reached him that Lady Ingleby was awake. 
'He went up-stairs immediately. 

Myra was sitting up in bed, propped with 
pillows. Her cheeks were fiushed; her eyes 
' bright and hard. 

She held out her hand to the doctor. 

“How good you have been,” she said, 
speaking very fast, in a high unnatimal voice: 
“ I am afraid I have given you a great deal of 
trouble. I don’t remember much about last 
night, excepting that they said Michael had 
been killed. Has Michael really been killed, 
do you think? And will they give me details? 
Surely I have a right to know details. No- 
thing can alter the fact that I was Michael’s 
wife, can it? Do go to breakfast, Maggie. 


56 


THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


There is nothing gained by standing there^ j 
smiling, and saying you do not want any j 
breakfast. Everybody wants breakfast at | 
nine o’clock in the morning. I should want i 
breakfast, if Michael had not been killed. 
Tell her she ought to have breakfast. Sir 
Deryck. I believe she has been up all night. 
It is such a comfort to have her. She is so 
brave and bright; and so full of sympathy.” 

”She is very brave,” said the doctor; : 
” and you are right as to her need of breakfast. 
Go down-stairs for a little while, Mrs. O’Mara. 

I will stay with Lady Ingleby.” 

She moved obediently to the door; but Sir 
Deryck reached it before her. And the j 
famous London specialist held the door open 
for the sergeant’s young widow, with an air 
of deference such as he would hardly have 
bestowed upon a queen. 

Then he came back to Lady Ingleby. His 
train left in three-quarters of an hour. But his 
task here was not finished. She had slept; 
but before he dare leave her, she must weep. 

“Where is Peter?” inquired the excited 


m SAFE HANDS 


57 


voice from the bed. ^‘He always barks to be 
let out, in the morning; but I have heard 
nothing of him yet.” 

*'He was exhausted last night, poor little 
chap,” said the doctor. ^‘He could scarcely 
walk. I carried him up, myself; and put him 
on the bed In the next room. The coat was 
still there. I wrapped him in it. He licked 
my hand, and lay down, content.” 

want to see him,” said Lady Ingleby. 
“Michael loved him. He seems all I have 
left of Michael.” 

“ I will fetch him,” said the doctor. 

He went into the adjoining room, leaving 
the door ajar. Myra heard him reach the 
bed. Then followed a long silence. 

“What is it?” she called at last. “Is he 
not there? Why are you so long?” 

Then the doctor came back. He carried 
something in his arms, wrapped in the old 
shooting jacket. 

“Dear Lady Ingleby,” he said, “little Peter 
is dead. He must have died during the night, 
in his sleep. He was lying just as I left him^ 


58 


THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


curled up in the coat; but he is quite cold and 
stiff. Faithful little heart!’’ said the doctor, 
with emotion, holding his burden, tenderly. 

‘"What!” cried Myra, with both arms out- 
stretched. “Peter has died, because Michael 
is dead; and I — I have not even shed a tear!” 
She fell back among the pillows in a paroxysm 
of weeping. 

The doctor stood by, silently; imcertain 
what tc do. Myra’s sobs grew more violent, 
shaking the bed with their convulsive force. 
Then she began to shriek inarticulately about 
Michael and Peter, and to sob again, with 
renewed violence. 

At that moment the doctor heard the hom 
of a motor-car in the avenue; then, almost 
immediately, the clang of the bell, and the 
sotmds of an arrival below. A look of im- 
mense relief came into his face. He went 
to the top of the great staircase, and looked 
over. 

The Honourable Mrs. Dalmain had arrived. 
The doctor saw her tall figure, in a dark green 
travelling coat, walk rapidly across the hall. 


IN SAFE HANDS 


59 


*‘Jane!” he said. “Jeanette! Ah, I knew 
you would not fail us! Come straight upc 
You have arrived at the right moment,’^ 
Jane looked up, and saw the doctor stand- 
ing at the top of the stairs; something wrapped 
in an old coat, held carefully in his arms. She 
threw him one smile of greeting and assurance; 
then, wasting no time in words, rapidly 
pulled off her coat, hat, and fur gloves, flinging 
them in quick succession to the astonished 
butler. The doctor only waited to see her 
actually moimting the stairs. Then, passing 
through Lady Ingleby’s room, he laid Peter’s 
little body back on his dead master’s bed, 
still wrapped in the old tweed coat. 

As he stepped back into Lady Ingleby’s 
room, closing the door between, he saw jane 
Dalmain kneel down beside the bed, and 
gather the weeping form into her arms, with 
a gesture of immense protective tenderness. 

“Oh Jane,” sobbed Lady Ingleby, as she 
hid her face in the sweet comfort of that 
generous bosom; “Oh Jane! Michael has been 
killed! And little Peter died, because Michael 


60 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


was dead. Little Peter died, and I had not 
even shed a tear!” 

The doctor passed quickly out, closing the 
door behind him. He did not wait to hear 
the answer. He knew it would be wise, and 
kind, and right. He left his patient in safe 
hands. Jane was there, at last. All would 
be well. 


CHAPTER V 


LADY INGLEBY's REST-CURE 

pROM the moment when the express for 
* Cornwall had slowly but irrevocably 
commenced to glide away from the Paddington 
platform; when she had looked her last upon 
Margaret O’Mara’s anxious devoted face, 
softly framed in her simple widow’s bonnet; 
when she had realised that her somewhat 
original rest-cure had really safely commenced, 
and that she was leaving, not only her worries, 
but her very identity behind her — Lady Ingle- 
by had leaned back with closed eyes in a corner 
of her reserved compartment, and given her- 
self up to quiet retrospection. 

The face, in repose, was sad — a quiet sad- 
ness, as of regret which held no bitterness. 
The cheek, upon which the dark fringe of 

6i 


62 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


lashes rested, was white and thin having lost 
the tint and contour of perfect health. But, 
every now and then, during those hours of 
retrospection, the wistful droop of the sweet 
expressive mouth curved into a smile, and a 
dimple peeped out imexpectedly, giving a 
look of youthfulness to the tired face. 

When London and its suburbs were com- 
pletely left behind, and the summer simshine 
blazed through the window from the clear 
blue of a radiant Jime sky. Lady Ingleby 
leaned forward, watching the rapid unfolding 
of coimtry lanes and hedges; wide commons, 
golden with gorse; fir woods, carpeted with 
blue-bells; mossy banks, overhung with wild 
roses, honeysuckle, and traveller’s-joy; the 
indescribable greenness and soft fragrance of 
England in early stunmer ; and, as she watched, 
a responsive light shone in her sweet grey eyes. 
The drear sadness of autumn, the deadness of 
winter, the chill imcertainty of spring — all 
these were over and gone. “Flowers appear 
on the earth; the time of the singing of birds 
is come,” miumurs the lover of Canticles; and 


LADY INGLEBY*S REST-CURE 


63 


in Myra Ingleby’s sad heart there blossomed 
timidly, flowers of hope; vague promise of 
future joy, which life might yet hold in store. 
A blackbird in the hawthorn, trilled gaily; and 
Myra softly sang, to an air of Garth Dalmain’s, 
the “Blackbird’s Song.” 

“Wake, wake, 

Sad heart! 

Rise up, and sing ! 

On God’s fair earth, ’mid blossoms blue, 

Fresh hope must ever spring. 

There is no room for sad despair. 

When heaven’s love is everywhere.’’ 

Then, as the train sped onward through 
Wiltshire, Somerset, and Devon, Lady Ingleby 
felt the mantle of her despondence slipping 
from her, and reviewed the past, much as a 
prisoner might glance back into his dark 
narrow cell, from the sunlight of the open door, 
as he stood at last on the threshold of libertyc 
Seven months had gone by since, on that 
chill November evening, the news of Lord 
Ingleby’s death had reached Shenstone. The 
happenings of the weeks which followed, nov; 


64 


THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


seemed vague and dreamlike to Myra, just 
a few events standing out clearly from the 
dim blur of misery. She remembered the 
reliable strength of the doctor; the unselfish 
devotion of Margaret O'Mara; the unspeak- 
able comfort of Jane’s wholesome understand- 
ing tenderness. Then the dreaded arrival of her 
mother; followed, immediately, according to 
promise, by the protective advent of Georgina, 
Duchess of Meldrum ; after which, tragedy and 
comedy walked hand in hand ; and the silence 
of mourning was enlivened by the ''Hoity- 
toity!” of the duchess, and the indignant 
sniffs of Mrs. Coller-Cray. 

Later on, details of Lord Ingleby’s death 
came to hand, and his widow had to learn that 
he had fallen — at the attempt upon Targai, 
it is true — ^but the victim of an accident; 
losing his life, not at the hands of the savage 
enemy, but through the unfortunate bltmder 
of a comrade. Myra never very clearly 
grasped the details: — a wall to be undermined; 
his own patent and fearful explosive; the 
grim enthusiasm with which he insisted t;pon 


LADY fNGLEBTS REST-CURE 


65 


placing it himself, arranging to have it fired 
by his patent electrical plan. Then the mis- 
taking of a signal; the fatal pressing of a but- 
ton five minutes too soon; an electric fiash 
in the mine, a terrific explosion, and instant 
death to the man whose skill and courage had 
made the gap through which crowds of cheer- 
ing British soldiers, bursting from the silent 
darkness, dashed to expectant victory. 

When full details reached the War Office, 
a Very Great Personage called at her house in 
Park Lane personally to explain to Lady 
Ingleby the necessity for the hushing up of 
some of these greatly-to-be-deplored facts. 
The whole unfortimate occturence had largely 
partaken of the nature of an experiment. 
The explosive, the new method of signalling, 
the portable electric plant — all these were 
being used by Lord Ingleby and the young 
officers who assisted him, more or less 
experimentally and unofficially. The man 
whose unfortunate mistake caused the ac- 
cident had an important career before him. 
His name must not be allowed to transpireo 


66 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


It woiild be iinfair that a future of great 
promise should be blighted by what was an 
obvious accident. The few to whom the 
name was known had been immediately 
pledged to secrecy. Of course it would be 
confidentially given to Lady Ingleby if she 
really desired to hear it, but 

Then Myra took a very characteristic line. 
She sat up with instant decision; her pale face 
flushed, and her large pathetic grey eyes shone 
with sudden brightness. 

‘^Pardon me, sir,” she said, * Tor interposing; 
but I never wish to know that name. My 
husband would have been the first to desire 
that it should not be told. And, personally, 
I should be sorry that there should be any 
man on earth whose hand I could not bring 
myself to touch in friendship. The hand that 
widowed me, did so without intention. Let 
it remain always to me an abstract instrument 
of the will of Providence. I shall never even 
try to guess to which of Michael's comrades 
that hand belonged.” 

Lady Ingleby was honest in making this 


LADY INGLEBY^S RESDCURE 


67 


decision; and the Very Great Personage 
stepped into his brougham, five minutes later, 
greatly relieved, and filled with admiration for 
Lord Ingleby’s beautiful and right-minded 
widow. She had always been all that was 
most charming. Now she added soimd good 
sense, to personal charm. Excellent! In- 
comparable! Poor Ingleby! Poor — Ah! he 
must not be mentioned, even in thought. 

Yes; Lady Ingleby was absolutely honest 
in coming to her decision. And yet, from 
that moment, two naiiies revolved perpetually 
in her mind, around a ceaseless question — the 
only men mentioned constantly by Michael 
in his letters as being always with him in his 
experiments, sharing his interests and his dan- 
gers : Ronald Ingram, and Billy Cathcart — dear 
boys, both; her devoted adorers; almost her 
dearest, closest friends ; faithful, trusted, tried. 
And now the haunting question circled aroimd 
all thought of them: '‘Was it Ronald? Or 
was it Billy? Which? Billy or Ronnie? 
Ronnie or Billy?'’ Myra had said: “I shall 
never even try to guess,” and she had said 


68 


THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


it honestly. She did not try to guess. She 
guessed, in spite of trying not to do so; and 
the certainty, and yet w/zcertainty of her 
surmisings told on her nerves, becoming a 
cause of mental torment which was with her, 
subconsciously, night and day. 

Time went on. The frontier war was over. 
England, as ever, had been bound to win in the 
end; and England had won. It had merely 
been a case of time; of learning wisdom by a 
series of initial mistakes; of expending a large 
amount of British gold and British blood. 
England’s supremacy was satisfactorily as- 
serted; and, those of her brave troops who had 
survived the initial mistakes, came home; 
among them Ronald Ingram and Billy Cath- 
cart; the former obviously older than when he 
went away, gaunt and worn, pale beneath his 
bronze, showing unmistakable signs of the 
effects of a severe wound and subsequent 
fever. “Too interesting for words,” said the 
Duchess of Meldrum to Lady Ingleby, re- 
counting her first sight of him. “If only I 
were fifty years younger than I am, I would 


LADY INGLEBTS REST-CURE 


69 


many the dear boy immediately, take him 
down to Overdene, and nurse him back to 
health and strength. Oh, you need not look 
incredrdous, my dear Myra! I always 
mean what I say, as you very well 
know.” 

But Lady Ingleby denied all suspicion of 
incredulity, and merely suggested languidly, 
that — ^bar the matrimonial suggestion — ^the 
programme was an excellent one, and might 
well be carried out. Young Ronald being of 
the same opinion, he was soon installed at 
Overdene, and had what he afterwards de- 
scribed as the time of his life, being pampered, 
spoiled, and petted by the dear old duchess, 
and never allowing her to suspect that one of 
the chief attractions of Overdene lay in the 
fact that it was within easy motoring distance 
of Shenstone Park. 

Billy returned as young, as inconsequent, as 
irrepressible as ever. And yet in him also, 
Myra was conscious of a subtle change, for 
which she, all too readily, foimd a reason, far 
removed from the real one. 


70 


THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


The fact was this. Both young men, in 
their romantic devotion to her, had yet been 
true 'to their own manhood, and loyal, at 
heart, to Lord Ingleby. But their loyalty 
had always been with effort. Therefore, when 
— the strain relaxed — they met her again, they 
were intensely conscious of her freedom and 
of their own resultant liberty. This pro- 
duced in them, when with her, a restraint 
and shyness which Myra naturally construed 
into a confirmation of her own suspicions. 
She, having never found it the smallest effort 
to remember she was Michael’s, and to be 
faithful in every thought to him, was quite 
imconscious of her liberty. There having 
been ho strain in remaining true to the in- 
stincts of her own pure, honest, hon- 
ourable nature, there was no tension to 
relax. 

So it very naturally came to pass that when 
one day Ronald Ingram had sat long with her, 
silently studying his boots, his strong face 
tense and miserable, every now and then 
looking furtively at her, then, as his eyes met 


LADY INGLEBY*S REST-CURE 


71 


the calm friendliness of hers, dropping them 
again to the floor: — ‘'Poor Ronnie,'' she 
mused, “with his ‘important career' before 
him. Undoubtedly it was he who did it. 
And Billy knows it. See how fldgety Billy 
is, while Ronnie sits with me." ) 

But by-and-by it would be: “No; of course 
it was Billy — dear hot-headed impulsive young 
Billy; and Ronald, knowing it, feels guilty 
also. Poor little Billy, who was as a son to 
Michael! There was no mistaking the emotion 
in his face just now, when I merely laid my 
hand on his. Oh, impetuous scatter-brained 
boy! . . . Dear heavens! I wish he would n't 
hand me the bread-and-butter." 

Then, into this atmosphere of misimder- 
standing and uncertainty, intruded a fresh 
element. A first-cousin of Lord Inglety's, 
to whom had come the title, minus the estates, 
came to the conclusion that title and estates 
might as well go together. To that end, 
intruding upon her privacy on every possible 
occasion, he proceeded to pay business-like 
court to Lady Ingleby. 


72 


THE MISIKESS OF SHENSTONE 


: Thus rudely Myra awoke to the under- 
standing of her liberty. At once, her whole 
outlook on life was changed. All things bore 
a new significance. Ronnie and Billy ceased 
to be comforts. Ronnie's nervous misery 
assumed a new importance; and, coupled 
with her own suspicions, filled her with a dis- 
mayed horror. The duchess's veiled jokes 
took point, and hurt. A sense of unprotected 
loneliness engulfed her. Every man became a 
prospective and dreaded suitor; every woman's 
remarks seemed to hold an innuendo. Her 
name in the papers distracted her. 

She recognised the morbidness of her con- 
dition, even while she felt unable to cope with 
it; and, leaving Shenstone suddenly, came 
up to town, and consulted Sir Deryck Brand. 

“Oh, my friend," she said, “help me! I 
shall never face life again." 

The doctor heard her patiently, aiding the 
recital by his strong understanding silence. 

Then he said, quietly: “Dear lady, the 
diagnosis is not difficult. Also there is but 
one possible remedy." He paused. 


LADY INGLEBrS REST-CURE 


73 


Lady Ingleby's imploring eyes and tense 
expectancy, besought his verdict. 

A rest-cure,’’ said the doctor, with finality. 

“Horrors, no!” cried Myra; “Would you 
shut me up within four walls; cram me with 
rice pudding and every form of food I most 
detest; send .a dreadful woman to pound, 
roll, and pommel me, and tell me gruesome 
stories; keep out all my friends, all letters, all 
books, all news; and, after six weeks send me 
out into the world again, with my figure gone, 
and not a sane thought upon any subject 
under the sun? Dear doctor, think of it! 
Stout, and an idiot! Oh, give me something 
in a bottle, to shake, and take three times a 
day — and let me go!” 

The doctor smiled. He was famed for his 
calm patience. 

“Your somewhat highly coloured descrip- 
tion, dear Lady Ingleby, applies to a form of 
rest-cure such as I rarely, if ever, recommend. 
In yoiu: case it would be worse than useless. 
We should gain nothing by shutting you up 
with the one person who is doing you harm, 


74 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


and from whom we must contrive your escape/" 

‘'The one person — queried Myra, wide- 
eyed. 

“A charming person,"’ smiled the doctor, 
“where the rest of mankind are concerned; 
but very bad for you just now.” 

‘ ‘ But — ^whom ? ’ ’ questioned Myra, again. 
“Whom can you mean? ” 

“I mean Lady Ingleby,” reidied the doctor, 
gravely. “When I send you away for your 
rest-cure, Lady Ingleby with her worries and 
questionings, doubts and fears, must be left 
behind. I shall send you to a little out-of- 
the-world village on the wild sea coast of 
Cornwall, where you know nobody, and no- 
body knows you. You must go incognito, as 
‘Miss’ or ‘Mrs.’ — anything you please. Your 
rest-cure will consist primarily in being set 
free, for a time, from Lady Ingleby ’s position, 
predicament, and perplexities. You must 
send word to all intimate friends, telling 
them you are going into retreat, and they 
must not write until they hear again. You 
will have leave to write one letter a week, to 


LADY INGLEBY*S REST-CURE 


75 


one person only; and that person must be 
one of whom I can approve. You must eat 
plenty of wholesome food; roam about all day 
long in the open-air; rise early, retire early; 
live entirely in a simple, beautiful, wholesome 
present, firmly avoiding all remembrance of a 
sad past, and all anticipation of an imcertain 
future. Nobody is to know where you are, 
excepting myself, and the one friend to whom 
you may write. But we will arrange that 
somebody — say, for instance, your devoted 
attendant from the Lodge, shall hold herself 
free to come to you at an hoim's notice, should 
you be overwhelmed with a sudden sense 
of loneliness. The knowledge of this, will 
probably keep the need from arising. You 
can commtmicate with me daily if you like, by 
letter or by telegram; but other people must 
not know where you are. I do not wish you 
followed by the anxious or restless thoughts of 
many minds. To-morrow I will give you the 
name of a place I recommend, and of a com- 
fortable hotel where you can order roomso 
It must be a place you have never seen, pra 


76 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


bably one of which you have never heard. We 
are nearing the end of May. I should like you 
to start on the first of June. If you want a 
house-party at Shenstone this summer, you 
may invite your guests for the first of July. 
Lady Ingleby will be at home again by then, 
fully able to maintain her reputation as a 
hostess of imequalled charm, graciousness, 
and popularity. Morbid self-consciousness 
is a condition of mind from which you have 
hith^rio been so completely free, that this un- 
expected attack has altogether imnerved you, 
and requires prompt and imcompromising 
measiures. ... Yes, Jane Dalmain may be 
your correspondent. You could not have 
chosen better.” 

This was the doctor’s verdict and pre- 
scription; and, as his patients never disputed 
the one, or declined to take the other, Myra 
found herself, on ”the glorious first of June” 
flying south in the Great Western express, 
bound for the little fishing village of Tregarth 
where she had ordered rooms at the Moor- 
head Inn, in the name of Mrs. O’Mara. 


CHAPTER VI 


AT THE MOORHEAD INN 

'^HE ruddy glow of a crimson sunset 
illumined cliff and hamlet, tinting the 
distant ocean into every shade of golden 
glory, as Myra walked up the gravelled path 
to the rustic porch of the Moorhead Inn, and 
looked arotmd her with a growing sense of 
excited refreshment. 

She had come on foot from the little way- 
side station, her luggage following in a bar- 
row; and this mode of progression, minus a 
footman and maid, and carrying her own 
cloak, umbrella, and travelling-bag, was in 
itself a charming novelty. 

At the door, she was received by the 
proprietress, a stately lady in black satin, 
wearing a double row of large jet beads, who 
reminded her instantly of all Lord Ingleby’s 
77 


78 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


maiden aunts. She seemed an accentuated, 
dignified, concentrated embodiment of them 
all; and Myra longed for Billy, to share the 
joke. 

“ Aimt Ingleby’' requested Mrs. O’Mara to 
walk in, and hoped she had had a pleasant 
jotumey. Then she rang a very loud bell 
twice, in order to summon a maid to show her 
to her room; and, the maid not appearing at 
once, requested Mrs. O'Mara meanwhile to 
write her name in the visitors’ book. 

Lady Ingleby walked into the hall, passing 
a smoking-room on the left, and, noting a 
door, with '‘Coffee Room” upon it in gold 
lettering, down a short passage immediately 
opposite. Up from the centre of the hall, on 
her right, went the rather wide old-fashioned 
staircase; and opposite to it, against the wall, 
between the smoking-room and a door labelled 
"Reception Robm, ” stood a marble-topped 
table. Lying open upon this table was a 
ponderous visitors’ book. A fresh page had 
been recently commenced, as yet only con- 
taining foiir names. The first three were 


AT THE MOORHEAD INN 


79 


dated May the 8th, and read, in crabbed 
precise writing: 

Miss Amelia Murgatroyd 
Miss Eliza Murgatroyd 
Miss Susannah Murgatroyd 
Below these, bearing date a week later, in 
small precise writing of immistakable character 
and clearness, the name: 

Jim Airih London, 

Pen and ink lay ready, and, without trou- 
bling to remove her glove, Lady Ingleby 
wrote beneath, in large, somewhat sprawHng, 
handwriting: 

Mrs. O' Mara The Lodge, Shenstone. 

A maid appeared, took her cloak and bag, 
and preceded her up the stairs. 

As she reached the turn of the staircase, 
Lady Ingleby paused, and looked back into 
the hall. 

The door of the smoking-room opened, and 
a very tall man came out, taking a pipe from 
the pocket of his loose Norfolli jacket. As 
he strolled into the hall, his face reminded 
her of Ronnie's, deep-bronzed and thin; only 


Lawn View, 
Putney. 


80 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


it was an older face — strong, rugged, purpose- 
ful. The heavy brown moustache could not 
hide the massive cut of chin and jaw. 

Catching sight of a fresh name in the book, 
he paused; then laying one large hand upon 
the table, bent over and read it. 

Myra stood still and watched, noting the 
broad shoulders, and the immense length of 
limb in the leather leggings. 

He appeared to study the open page longer 
than was necessary for the mere reading of 
the name. Then, without looking round, 
reached up, took a cap from the antler of a 
stag’s head high up on the wall, stuck it on the 
back of his head; swung round, and went out 
through the porch, whistling like a black- 
bird. 

''Jim Airth,” said Myra to herself, as she 
moved slowly on; "Jim Airth of London. 
What an address! He might just as well have 
put: 'of the world!’ A cross between a 
guardsman and a cowboy; and very likely he 
will turn out to be a commercial-traveller.” 
Then, as she reached the landing and came in 


AT THE MOORHEAD INN 


81 

sight of the rosy-cheeked maid, holding open 
the door of a large airy bedroom, she added 
with a whimsical smile: “All the same, I wish 
I had taken the trouble to write more neatly.*’ 


/ 


CHAPTER VII 


MRS. o'mara’s correspondence 

Letter from Lady Ingleby to the Honourable 
Mrs. Dalmain. .. 

The Moorhead Inn, 

* Tregarth, Cornwall. 

My dear Jane, 

Having been here a week, I think it is time 
I commenced my first letter to you. 

How does it feel to be a person considered 
pre-eminently suitable to minister to a mind 
diseased? Does n’t it give you a sense of 
being, as it were, rice pudding, or Brand’s 
essence, or Maltine; something essentially safe 
and wholesome? You should have heard how 
Sir Deryck jumped at you, as soon as your 
name was mentioned, tentatively, as my possi- 
ble correspondent. I had barely whispered 
it, when he leapt, and clinched the matter. 

82 


MRS. OMARA'S CORRESPONDENCE 83 


I believe 'Wholesome'’ was an adjective men- 
tioned. I hope you do not mind, dear Jane. 
I must confess, I would sooner be macaroons 
or oyster-patties, even at the risk of giving 
my friends occasional indigestion. But then I 
have never gone in for the r61e of being helpful, 
in which you excel. Not that it is a ^'rble’’ with 
you, dear Jane. Rather, it is an essential 
characteristic. You walk in, and find a hope- 
less tangle; gather up the threads in those 
firm capable hands; deftly sort and hold 
them; and, lo, the tangle is over; the skein of 
life is once more ready for winding ! 

Well, there is not much tangle about me 
just now, thanks to our dear doctor’s most 
excellent prescription. It was a veritable 
stroke of genius, this setting me free from 
myself. From the first day, the sense of 
emancipation was indescribable. I enjoy be- 
ing addressed as '‘Ma’am”; I revel in being 
without a maid, though it takes me ages to 
do my hair, and I have serious thoughts of 
wearing it in pigtails down my back! When 
I remember the poor, harassed, exhausted, 


84 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 

society-self I left behind, I feel like buying a 
wooden spade and bucket and starting out, 
all by myself, to build sand-castles on this 
delightful shore. I have no one to play with, 
for I am certain the Miss Murgatroyds — I 
am going to tell you of them — never made 
sand-castles; no, not even in their infancy, 
a century ago ! They must always have been 
the sort of children who wore white frilled 
bloomers, poplin frocks, and large leghorn 
hats with ribbons tied beneath their excellent 
little chins, and walked demurely with their 
governess — looking shocked at other infants 
who whooped and ran. I feel inclined to 
whoop and run, now; and the Miss Murga- 
troyds are quite prepared to look shocked. 

But oh, the freedom of being nobody, and 
of having nothing to think of or do! And 
everything I see and hear gives me joy; a lark 
rising from the turf, and carolling its little 
self up into the blue; the great Atlantic 
breakers, pounding upon the shore; the fisher- 
folk, standing at the doors of their picturesque 
thatched cottages. All things seem alive, 


MRS. 0*MARAS CORRESPONDENCE 85 


with an exuberance of living, to which I have 
long been a stranger. 

Do you know this coast, with :ts high 
moorland, its splendid cliffs; and, far below, 
its sand coves, and ever-moving, rolling, surg- 
ing, deep green sea? Wonderful! Beautiful! 
Infinite! 

My Inn is charming; primitive, yet com- 
fortable. We have excellent coffee, fried fish 
in perfection; real nursery toast, farm butter, 
and home-made bread. When you supple- 
ment these with marmalade and mulberry 
jam, other things all cease to be necessities. 

Stray travellers come and go in motors, 
merely lunching, or putting up for one night; ' 
but there are only four other permanent 
guests. These all furnish me with unceasing 
interest and amusement. The three Miss 
Murgatroyds — oh, Jane, they are so ante- 
diluvian and quaint ! Three ancient sisters, — 
by name, Amelia, Eliza, and Susannah. Their 
villa at Putney rejoices in the name of ‘‘Lawn 
View’’; so characteristic and suitable; because 
no view reaching beyond the limits of their 


86 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


own front lawn appears to these dear ladies 
to be worthy of regard. They never go 
abroad, ** excepting to the Isle of Wight,*' be- 
\ cause they '' do not like foreigners." A party 
of quite charming Americans arrived just 
before dinner the other day, in an automobile, 
and kept us lively during their flying visit. 
They were cordial over the consomme ; friendly 
over the fish; and quite confidential by the 
time we reached the third course. But, alas, 
I these delightful cousins from the other 
side, were considered "foreigners" by the 
Miss Murgatroyds, who consequently encased 
themselves in the frigid armour of their own 
self-conscious primness; and passed the mus- 
tard, without a smile. I felt constrained, after- 
wards, to apologise for my coimtry- women ; 
but the Americans, overflowing with appreci- 
ative good-nature, explained that they had 
come over expressly in order to see old British 
; relics of every kind. They asked me whether 
i I did not think the Miss Murgatroyds might 
i have stepped "right out of Dickens." I was 
fairly nonplussed, because I thought they 


MRS, O^MARA'S CORRESPONDENCE 87 


were going to say '‘out of the ark” — you know 
how one mentally finishes a sentence as soon 
as it is begun? — and I simply dared not 
confess that I have not read Dickens! Alas, 
how ignorant of our own standard literature 
we are apt to feel when we talk with Ameri- 
cans, and find it completely a part of their 
everyday life. 

But I must tell you more about the Miss 
Murgatroyds — ^Amelia, Eliza, and Susannah. 
When quite at peace among themselves, which 
is not often, they are Milly, Lizzie, and Susie; 
but a little rift within the lute is marked by 
the immediate use of their full baptismal 
names. Poor Susannah being the youngest 
— the youthful side of sixty — and inclined to 
be kittenish and giddy, is very rarely “Susie.” 
Miss Murgatroyd — ^Amelia — is stem and un- 
bending. She wears a cameo brooch the size 
of a tablespoon, and lays down the law in 
precise and elegant English, even when 
asking Susie to pass the crumpets. Mis-^ 
Eliza, the second sister, is meek and unoffend- 
ing. Her attitude toward Miss Amelia is one 


88 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


of perpetual apology. She addresses Susie 
as dear love,” excepting on occasions 
when Susie’s behavioiu* has put her quite 
outside the pale. Then she calls her, ''my 
dear Susannah!” and sighs. I am inclined 
to think Miss Eliza suffers from a demonstra- 
tive nature, which has never had an outlet. 

But Susie is the lively one. Susie would 
be a flirt, if she dared, and if any man were 
bold enough to flirt with her under Miss 
Amelia’s eye. Susie is barely fifty-flve, and 
her elder sisters regard her as a mere child, 
and are very ready with reproof and correction. 
Susie has a pink and white complexion, a soft 
fat little face, and plump dimpled hands; 
and Susie is given to vanity. Jim Airth held 
open the door of the coffee-room for her one 
day, and Susie — I should say Susannah — 
has been in a flutter ever since. Poor naughty 
Susie! Miss Miu*gatroyd has changed her 
place at meals — ^they have a table in the centre 
cf the room — and made her sit with her back 
to Jim Airth; who has a round table, all to 
himself, in the window. 


MRS. 0*MARAS CORRESPONDENCE 89 


Now I must tell you about Jim Airth, and of 
a curious coincidence connected with him, 
which you must not repeat to the doctor, for 
fear he should move me on. 

Let me confess at once, that I am extremely 
interested in Jim Airth — and it is sweet and 
generous of me to admit it, for Jim Airth is 
not in the least interested in me! He rarely 
vouchsafes me a word or a glance. He is a 
bear, and a savage ; but such a fine good-looking 
bear; and such a splendid and interesting 
savage ! He is quite the tallest man I ever saw ; 
with immense limbs, lean and big-boned; yet 
moves with the supple grace of an Indian. 
"He was through that campaign last year, and 
had a terrible turn of sunstroke and fever, 
during which his head was shaved. Conse- 
quently his thick brown hair is now at the 
stage of standing straight up all over it like a 
bottle-brush. I know Susie longs tc smooth 
it down; but that would be a task beyond 
Susie’s utmost efforts. His brows are very 
stern and level; and his eyes, deep-set beneath 
them, of that gentian blue which makes one 


90 


THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTCNE 


think of Alpine heights. They can flash and 
gleam, on occasions, and sometimes look al- 
most purple. He wears a heavy brown 
moustache, and his jaw and chin are terrifying 
in their masterful strength. Y et he smokes an 
old briar pipe; whistles like a blackbird; and 
derives immense amusement from playing up 
to naughty Susie's coyness, when the cameo 
brooch is turned another way. I have seen 
his eyes twinkle with fun when Miss Susannah 
has purposely let fall her handkerchief, and he 
has reached out a long arm, picked it up, and 
restored it. Whereupon Susie has hastened 
out, in the wake of her sisters, in a blushing 
flutter; Miss Eliza turning to whisper: ''Oh, 
my dear love! Oh Susannah!" I try, when 
these things happen, to catch Jim Airth's 
merry eye, and share the humour of the 
situation; but he stolidly sees the wall through 
me on all occasions, and would tread heavily 
on my poor handkerchief, if I took to dropping 
it. Miss Murgatroyd tells me that he is a 
confirmed hater of feminine beauty; upon 
which poor Miss Susannah takes a surrepti- 


MRS O'MARAS CORRESPONDENCE 9\ 


tious prink into the gold-framed mirror over 
the reception-room mantelpiece, and says, 
plaintively: ‘'Oh, do not say that, Amelia!'’ 
But Amelia does say “that"; and a good deal 
more! 

When first I saw Jim Airth, I thought him 
a cross between a cowboy and a guardsman; 
and I think so still. But what do you 
suppose he turns out to be, beside? An 
author! And, stranger still, he is writing 
an important book called Modern Warfare; 
its Methods and Requirements^ in which he is 
explaining and working out many of Michael’s 
ideas and experiments. He was right through 
that border war, and took part in the assault 
o. .. Targai. He must have known Michael, 
intimately. 

All this information I have from Miss 
Murgatroyd. I sometimes sit with them 
in the reception-room after dinner, where 
they wind wool and knit — endless winding; 
perpetual knitting ! At five minutes to 
ten. Miss Murgatroyd says: “Now, my dear 
Eliza. Now, Susannah," which is the signal 


92 


THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


for bestowing all their goods and chattels into 
black satin work-bags. Then, at ten o'clock 
precisely, Miss Mtirgatroyd rises, and they 
procession up to bed — ah, no! I beg their 
I pardons. The Miss Murgatroyds never ''go 
i to bed."' They all "retire to rest." 

Jim Airth and his doings form a favourite 
topic of conversation. They speak of him as 
"Mr. Airth," which sounds so funny. He is 
not the sort of person one ever could call 
" Mister." To me, he has been "Jim Airth, " 
ever since I saw his name, in small neat 
writing, in the visitors' book. I had to put 
mine just beneath it, and of course I wrote 
"Mrs. O'Mara" ; then, as an address seemed ex- 
pected, added: "The Lodge, Shenstone." Just 
after I had written this, Jim Airth came into 
the hall, and stood quite still studying it. 
I saw him, from half-way up the stairs. At 
first I thought he was marvelling at my 
shocking handwriting; but now I believe the 
name "Shenstone" caught his eye. No 
doubt he knew it to be Michael's family- 
seat. 


MRS. 0*MARA*S CORRESPONDENCE 93 


Do you know, it was so strange, the other 
night. Miss Murgatroyd held forth in the 
reception-room about Michael's death. She 
explained that he was “the first to dash into 
the breach," and “fell with his face to the foe." 
She also added that she used to know “poor 
dear Lady Ingleby," intimately. This was 
interesting, and seemed worthy of further 
inquL“y. It turned out that she is a distant 
cousin of a weird old person who used to call 
every year on mamma, for a subscription to 
some society for promoting thrift among the 
inhabitants of the South Sea Islands. Dear 
mamma used annually to jump upon this 
courageous old party and flatten her out; and 
listening to the process was, to us, a fearful 
joy; but annually she returned to the charge. 
On one of these occasions, just before my 
marriage. Miss Murgatroyd accompanied her. 
Hence her intimate knowledge of “poor dear 
Lady Ingleby." Also she has a friend who, 
quite recently, saw Lady Ingleby driving in 
the Park; “and, poor thing, she had sadly gone 
off in looks."' I felt inclined to prink in the 


94 


THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


golden mirror, after the manner of Susie, and 
exclaim: ‘‘Oh, do not say that, Amelia!’' 

Is n’t it queer the way in which such people 
as these worthy ladies, yearn to be able to say 
they know us; for really, when all is said and 
done, we are not very much worth knowing? 
I would rather know a cosmopolitan cowboy, 
such as Jim Airth, than half the titled frlk on 
my visiting-list. 

But really, Jane, I must not mention him 
again, or you will think I am infected with 
Susie’s flutter. Not so, my dear! He has 
shown me no little courtesies; given few signs 
of being conscious of my presence; barely 
returned my morning greeting, though my 
lonely table is just opposite his, in the large 
bay-window. 

But in this new phase of life, everything 
seems of absorbing interest, and the individ- 
uality of the few people I see, takes on an 
exaggerated importance. (Really that sen- 
tence might almost be Sir Deryck’s!) Also, 
I really believe Jim Airth’s peculiar fascination 
consists in the fact that I am conscious of his 


MRS, O^MARAS CORRESPONDENCE 9^ 


disapproval. If he thinks of me at all, it is 
not with admiration, nor even with liking. 
And this is a novel experience; for I have been 
spoilt by perpetual approval, and satiated by 
senseless and unmerited adulation. 

Oh Jane! As I walk along these cliffs, 
and hear the Atlantic breakers pounding 
against their base, far down below ; as I watch 
the sea-gulls circling around on their strong 
white wings; as I realise the strength, the 
force, the liberty, in nature; the growth and 
progress which accompanies life; I feel I have 
never really lived. Nothing has ever felt 
strong, either beneath me, or around me, or 
against me. Had I once been mastered, and 
held, and made to do as another willed, I 
should have felt love was a reality, and life 
would have become worth living. But I 
have just dawdled through the years, doing 
exactly as I pleased; making mistakes, and 
nobody troubling to set me right; failing, and 
nobody disappointed that I had not succeeded. 

I realise now, that there is a key to life, and 
a key to love, which has never been placed in 


96 


THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


my hands. What it is, I know not. But if 
I ever learn, it will be from just such a man as 
Jim Airth. I have never really talked with 
him, yet I am so conscious of his strength and 
virility, that he stands to me, in the abstract, 
for all that is strongest in manhood, and 
most vital in life. 

Much of the benefit of my time here, quite 
unconsciously to himself, comes to me from 
him. When he walks into the house, whistling 
like a blackbird; when he hangs up his cap 
on an antler a foot or two higher than other 
people could reach; when he ploughs im- 
hesitatingly through his meals, with a book or 
a paper stuck up in front of him; when he 
dumps his big boots out into the passage, 
long after the quiet house has hushed into 
repose, and I smile, in the darkness, at the 
thought of how the sound will have annoyed 
Miss Murgatroyd, startled Miss Eliza, and 
made naughty Miss Susannah’s heart flutter; 
— ^when all these things happen every day, 
I am conscious that a clearer understanding 
of the past, a new strength for the future, and 


MRS, O'MARA^S CORRESPONDENCE 97 


a fresh outlook on life, come to me, simply 
from the fact that he is himself, and that he is 
here. Jim Airth may not be a saint ; but he is 
a man! 

Dea-^ fane, I should scarcely venture to send 
you this epistle, were it not for all the ad- 
jectives — ‘ * wholesome, ’ ’ ‘ ^ helpful, ” ‘ ' imder- 
standing,” etc., which so rightly apply to you. 
You will not misunderstand. Of that I have 
no fear. But do not tell the doctor more than 
that I am very well, in excellent spirits, and 
happier than I have ever been in my life. 

Tell Garth I loved his last song. How often 
I sing to myself, as I walk in the sea breeze 
and sunshine, the hairbells waving roimd my 
feet: 

“On God’s fair earth, *mid blossoms blue, 

Fresh hope must ever spring.” 

I trust I sing it in tune; but I know I have 
not much ear. 

And how is your little Geoffrey? Has he 
the beautiful shining eyes, we all remember? 
I have often laughed over your account of his 


98 


THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


sojoiim at Overdene, and of how our dear 
naughty old duchess stirred him up to rebel 
against his nurse. You must have had your 
hands full when you and Garth retur^ied from 
America. Oh, Jane, how different my life 
would have been if I had had a little son! 
Ah, well! 

I “ There is no room for sad despair, 

I When heaven’s love is everywhere.’* 

Tell Garth, I love it; but I wish he wrote 
simpler accompaniments. That one beats 
me! 

Yours, dear Jane, 

Gratefully and affectionately, 
Myra Ingleby. 

Letter from the Honourable Mrs. Dalmain 
to Lady Ingleby. 

Castle Gleneesh, N. B. 

My dear Myra, 

No, I have not the smallest objection to 
representing rice pudding, or anything else 
plain and wholesome, providing I agree with 
you, and suffice for the need of the moment 


MRS. 0*MARA*S CORRESPONDENCE 99 


I am indeed glad to ha.ve so good a report. 
It proves Deryck right in his diagnosis and 
prescription. Keep to the latter faithfully, 
in every detail. 

I am much interested in your account of 
your fellow-guests at the Moorhead Inn. No, 
I do not misunderstand your letter; nor do 
I credit you with any foolish sentimentality, 
or Susie-like flutterings. Jim Airth stands to 
you for an abstract thing — ^uncompromising 
manhood, in its strength and assurance; very 
attractive after the loneliness and sense of 
being cut adrift, which have been your portion 
lately. Only, remember — ^where living men 
and women are concerned, the safely abstract 
is apt suddenly to become the perilously 
personal; and your future happiness may be 
seriously involved, before you realise the 
danger. I confess, I fail to understand the 
man's avoidance of you. He sounds the sort 
of fellow who would be friendly and pleasant 
toward all women, and passionately loyal to 
one. Perhaps you, with your sweet loveliness 
• — a fact, my dear, notwithstanding the obser- 


m THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


vations in the Park, of Miss Amelia’s crony! — 
may remind him of some long-closed page of 
past history, and he may shrink from the pain 
of a consequent turning of memory’s leaves. 
No doubt Miss Susannah recalls some nice 
old maiden-aunt, and he can afford to respond 
to her blandishments. 

What you say of the way in which Americans 
know our standard authors, reminds me of a 
fellow-passenger on board the Baltic^ on our 
outward voyage — a charming woman, from 
Hartford, Connecticut, who sat beside us at 
meals. She had been spending five months 
in Europe, travelling incessantly, and finished 
up with London — ^her first visit to our capital 
— expecting to be altogether too tired to enjoy 
it; but found it a place of such abounding 
interest and delight, that lifo went on with 
fresh zest, and fatigue was forgotten. ‘‘Every 
street,” she explained, ‘‘is so familiar. V/e 
have never seen them before, and yet they 
are more familiar than the streets of our native 
cities. It is the London of Dickens and of 
Thackeray. We know it all. We recognise 


MRS, O'MARAS CORRESPONDENCE 10 i 


the streets as we come to them. The places 
are homelike to us. We have known them all 
our lives'" I enjoyed this tribute to our 
English literature. But I wonder, my dear 
Myra, how many streets, east of Temple 
Bar, in our dear old London, are homelike ’’ 
to you! 

Garth insists upon sending you at once a 
selection of his favourites from among the 
works of Dickens. So expect a bulky package 
before long. You might read them aloud 
to the Miss Murgatroyds, while they kv it 
and wind wool. 

Garth thoroughly enjoyed our trip to 
America. You know why we went? Since 
he lost his sight, all sounds mean so much to 
him. He is so boyishly eager to hear all there 
is to be heard in the world. Any possibility 
of a new sound-experience fills him with 
enthusiastic expectation, and away we go! 
He set his heart upon hearing the thunderous 
roar of Niagara, so off we went, by the White 
Star Line. His enjoyment was complete, 
when at last he stood close to the Horseshoe 


102 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


Fall, on the Canadian side, with his hand on 
the rail at the place where the spray showers 
over you, and the great rushing boom seems 
aU aroimd. And as we stood there together, a 
little bird on a twig beside us, began to sing ! — 
Garth is putting it all into a symphony. 

How true is what you say of the genial 
friendliness of Americans I I was thinking it 
over, on our homeward voyage. It seems to 
me, that, as a rule, they are so far less self- 
conscious than we. Their minds are fully at 
liberty to go out at once, in keenest apprecia- 
tion and interest, to meet a new acquaintance. 
Our senseless British greeting: “How do you 
do? “ — ^that everlasting question, which neither 
expects nor awaits an answer, can only lead 
to trite remarks about the weather; whereas 
America’s “I am happy to meet you, Mrs. 
Dalmain,” or “I am pleased to make your 
acquaintance. Lady Ingleby,” is an open door, 
through which we 'pass at once to fuller 
friendliness. Too often, in the moment of 
introduction, the reserved British nature turns 
in upon itself, sensitively debating what 


MRS. 0*MARAS CORRESPONDENCE 103 


impression it is making; nervously afraid of 
being too expansive; fearful of giving itself 
away. But, as I said, the American mind 
comes forth to meet us with prompt interest 
and appreciative expectation; and we make 
more friends, in that land of ready sympathies, 
in half an hour, than we do in half a year of our 
own stiff social functions. Perhaps you will 
put me down as biassed in my opinion. Well, 
they were wondrous good to Garth and me; 
and we depend so greatly upon people saying 
exactly the right thing at the right moment. 
When friendly looks cannot be seen, tactful 
words become more than ever a necessity. 

Yes, little Geoff’s eyes are bright and 
shining, and the true golden brown. In 
many other ways he is very like his father. 

Garth sends his love, and promises you a 
special accompaniment to the “Blackbird’s 
Song,” such as can easily be played with one 
finger! 

It seems so strange to address this envelope 
to Mrs. O’Mara. It reminds me of a time 
when I dropped my own identity and used 


104 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


another woman’s name. I only wish your 
experiment might end as happily as mine. 

Ah, Myra dearest, there is a Best for every 
life ! Sometimes we can only reach it by a rocky 
path or along a thorny way; and those who 
fear the pain, come to it not at all. But such 
of us as have attained, can testify that it is 
worth while. From all you have told me 
lately, I gather the Best has not yet come your 
way. Keep on expecting. Do not be content 
with less. 

We certainly must not let Deryck know 
that Jim Airth — ^what a nice name — ^was at 
Targai. He would move you on, promptly. 

Report again next week; and do abide, if 
necessary, beneath the safe chaperonage of 
the cameo brooch. 

Yours, in all fidelity, 

Jane Dalmain. 


CHAPTER VIII 


IN HORSESHOE COVE 

f ADY INGLEBY sat in the honeysuckle 
^ arbour, pouring her tea from a little 
brown earthenware teapot, and spreading 
substantial slices of home-made bread with the 
creamiest of farm butter, when the aged 
postman hobbled up to the garden gate of the 
Moorhead Inn, with a letter for Mrs. O'Mara. 

For a moment she could scarcely bring 
herself to open an envelope bearing another 
name than her own. Then, smiling at her 
momentary hesitation, she tore it open with 
the keen delight of one, who, accustomed to 
a dozen letters a day, has passed a week 
without receiving any. 

She read Mrs. Balmain’s letter through 
rapidly; and once she laughed aloud; and once 
a sudden colour flamed into her cheeks. 

105 


i06 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


Then she laid it down, and helped herself 
to honey — real heather-honey, golden in the 
comb. 

She took up her letter again, and read it 
carefully, weighing each word. 

^ Then: — '‘Good old Jane!'* she said; “that 
■is rather neatly put: the ‘safely abstract’ 
becoming the ‘perilously personal.’ She has 
acquired the knack of terse and forceful 
phraseology from her long friendship with the 
i doctor. I can do it myself, when I try; only, 
my Sir Derycky sentences are apt merely to 
sound well, and mean nothing at all. And 
— after all — does this of Jane’s mean any- 
thing worthy of consideration? Could six 
foot five of abstraction — eating its breakfast 
in complete imconsciousness of one’s presence, 
returning one’s timid ‘good-morning’ with per- 
functory politeness, and relegating one, while 
still debating the possibility of venturing a 
remark on the weather, to obvious oblivion — 
ever become perilously personal? ’’ 

Lady Ingleby laughed again, returned the 
letter to its envelope, and proceeded to cut 


IN HORSESHOE COVE 


\07 


herself a slice of home-made currant cakco 
As she finished it, with a final cup of tea, she 
thought with amusement of the difference 
between this substantial meal in the honey- 
suckle arbour of the old inn garden, and the 
fashionable teas then going on in crowded 
drawing-rooms in town, where people hurried 
in, took a tiny roll of thin bread-and-butter, 
and a sip at luke-warm tea, which had stood 
sufficiently long to leave an abiding taste of 
tannin; heard or imparted a few more or less 
detrimental facts concerning mutual friends; 
then hurried on elsewhere, to a cucumber 
sandwich, colder tea, which had stood even 
longer, and a fresh instalment of gossip. 

''Oh, why do we do it?’’ mused Lady 
Ingleby. Then, taking up her scarlet parasol, 
she crossed the little lawn, and stood at the 
garden gate, in the afternoon sunlight, de- 
bating in which direction she should go. 

Usually her walks took her along the top of 
the cliffs, where the larks, springing from the 
short turf and clumps of waving harebells, 
sang themselves up into the sky. She loved 


^08 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


being high above the sea, and hearing the 
distant thunder of the breakers on the rocks 
below. 

But to-day the steep little street, down 
through the fishing village, to the cove, looked 
inviting. The tide was out, and the sands 
gleamed golden. 

Also, from her seat in the arbour, she had 
seen Jim Airth’s tall figure go swinging along 
the cliff edge, silhouetted against the clear 
blue of the sky. And one sentence in the 
letter she had just received, made this into a 
factor which turned her feet toward the shore. 

The friendly Cornish folk, sitting on theii 
doorsteps in the sunshine, smiled at the lovely 
woman in white serge, who passed down their 
village street, so tall and graceful, beneath 
the shade of her scarlet parasol. An item in 
the doctor’s prescription had been the dis- 
carding of widow’s weeds, and it had seemed 
quite natural to Myra to come down to her 
first Cornish breakfast in a cream serge gown. 

Arrived at the shore, she turned in the 
direction she usually took when up above, 


IN HORSESHOE COVE 


10 ^ 


and walked quickly along the firm smooth 
sand ; pausing occasionally to pick up a 
beautifully marked stone, or to examine a 
brilliant sea-anemone or gleaming jelly-fish, 
left stranded by the tide. 

Presently she reached a place where the cliff 
jutted out toward the sea; and, climbing over 
slippery rocks, studded with shining pools 
in which crimson seaweed waved, crabs 
scudded sideways from her passing shadow, 
and darting shrimps flicked across and buried 
themselves hastily in the sand, Myra found 
herself in a most fascinating cove. The line 
of cliff here made a horseshoe, not quite half a 
mile in length. The little bay, within this 
curve, was a place of almost fairy-like beauty; 
the sand a soft glistening white, decked with 
delicate crimson seaweed. The cliffs, towering 
up above, gave welcome shadow to the shore; 
yet the stm behind them still gleamed and 
sparkled on the distant sea. 

Myra walked to the centre of the horseshoe; 
then, picking up a piece of driftwood, scooped 
out a comfortable hollow in the sand, about a 


1 10 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


dozen yards from the foot of the cliff ; stuck her 
open parasol tip behind it, to shield herself from 
the observation, from above, of any chance 
passer-by; and, settling comfortably into the 
soft hollow, lay back, watching, through 
half-closed lids, the fleeting shadows, the blue 
sky, the gently moving sea. Little white 
clouds blushed rosy red. An opal tint gleamed 
on the water. The moving ripple seemed too 
far away to break the restful silence. 

Lady Ingleby’s eyelids drooped lower and 
lower. 

''Yes, my dear Jane,” she murmured, 
dreamily watching a snow-white sail, as it 
rounded the point, curtseyed, and vanished 
from view; "undoubtedly a — a well-expressed 
sentence; but far from — ^from — ^being fact. 
The safely abstract could hardly require — a — 
a — a cameo " 

The long walk, the sea breeze, the distant 
lapping of the water — all these combined had 
done their soothing work. 

Lady Ingleby slept peacefully in Horseshoe 
Cove; and the rising tide crept in. 


CHAPTER IX 

JIM AIRTH TO THE RESCUE 
N hoiir later, a man swung along the path 



^ at the summit of the cliffs, whistling like 
a blackbird. 

The sun was setting; and, as he walked, he 
revelled in the gold and crimson of the sky; 
in the opal tints upon the heaving sea. 

The wind had risen as the sun set, and 
breakers were beginning to potmd along the 
shore. 

Suddenly something caught his eye, far 
down below. 

‘'By Jove!'' he said. “A scarlet poppy on 
the sands!" 

He walked on, until his rapid stride brought 
him to the centre of the cliff above Horseshoe 
Cove. 


Ill 


1 12 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


Then — ''Good Lord!” said Jim Airth, 
and stood still. 

He had caught sight of Lady Ingleby’s 
white skirt reposing on the sand, beyond the 
scarlet parasol. 

"Good Lord!" said Jim Airth. 

Then he scanned the horizon. Not a boat 
to be seen. 

His quick eye travelled along the cliff, the 
way he had come. Not a living thing in sight. 

On to the fishing village. Faint threads of 
ascending vapoiu: indicated chimneys. ' ' Two 
miles at least, ' ' muttered Jim Airth. ' ' I could 
not run it and get back with a boat, imder 
three quarters of an hoiur." 

Then he looked down into the cove. 

"Both ends cut off. The water will reach 
her feet in ten minutes; will sweep the base 
of the cliff, in twenty." 

Exactly beneath the spot where he stood, 
more than half way down, was a ledge about 
six feet long by foiu: feet wide. 

Letting himself over the edge, holding to 
txffts of grass, tiny shrubs, jutting stones. 


JIM AIRTH TO THE RESCUE 


IB 


cracks in the surface of the sandstone, he 
managed to reach this narrow ledge, dropping 
the last ten feet, and landing on it by an almost 
superhuman effort of balance. 

One moment he paused; carefully took its 
measure; then, leaning over, looked down. 
Sixty feet remained, a precipitous slope, with 
nothing to which foot could hold, or hand 
could cling. 

Jim Airth buttoned his Norfolk jacket, and 
tightened his belt. Then slipping, feet fore- 
most off the ledge, he glissaded down on his 
back, bending his knees at the exact moment 
when his feet thudded heavily on to the sand. 

For a moment the shock stunned him. 
Then he got up and looked around. 

He stood, within ten yards of the scarlet 
parasol, on the small strip of sand still left 
uncovered by the rapidly advancing sweep of 
the rising tide. 


CHAPTER X 

'*YEO HO, WE go!’* 

^ A CA^EO chaperonage,” murmured Lady 
^ Ingleby, and suddenly opened her eyes. 

Sky and sea v/ere still there, but between 
them, closer than sea or sky, looking down 
upon her with a tense light in his blue eyes, 
stood Jim Airth. 

'^Why, I have been asleep!” said Lady 
Ingleby. 

”You have,” said Jim Airth; ”and mean- 
while the sun has set, and — ^the tide has come 
lip. Allow me to assist you to rise.*' 

Lady Ingleby put her hand into his, and 
he helped her to her feet. She stood beside 
him gazing, with wide startled eyes, at the 
expanse of sea, the rushing waves, the. tiny 
strip of sand. 


114 


YEO HO, WE GO I 


115 


' ‘^The tide seems very high/^ said Lady 
Ingleby. 

'‘Very high,” agreed Jim Airth. He stood 
close beside her, but his eyes still eagerly 
scanned the water. If by any chance a boat 
came round the point there would still be 
time to hail it. 

"We seem to be cut off,” said Lady Ingleby. 

"We are cut off,” replied Jim Airth, lacon- 
ically. 

"Then I suppose we must have a boat,” 
said Lady Ingleby. 

"An excellent suggestion,” replied Jim 
Airth, drily, "if a boat were to be had. But, 
unfortunately, we are two miles from the 
hamlet, and this is not a time when boats 
pass in and out; nor would they come this 
way. When I saw you, from the top of the 
cliff, I calculated the chances as to whether I 
could reach the boats, and be back here in 
time. But, before I could have retiuned with 
a boat, you would have — been very wet,” 
finished Jim Airth, somewhat lamely. 

He looked at the lovely face, close to his 


^ 1 6 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


shotilder. It was pale and serious, but showed 
no sign of fear. 

He glanced at the point of cliff beyond. 
Twenty feet above its rocky base the breakers 
were dashing; but round that point would be 
safety. 

'' Can you swim? asked Jim Airth, eagerly. 

Myra’s calm grey eyes met his, steadily. A 
gleam of amusement dawned in them. 

“If you put your hand under my chin, 
and coimt ‘one — ^two! one — ^two!’ very loud 
and quickly, I can swim nearly ten yards,” 
she said. 

Jim Airth laughed. His eyes met hers, in 
sudden comprehending comradeship. “By 
Jove, you’re plucky!” they seemed to say. 
But what he really said was: “Then swimming 
is no go.” 

“No go, for me,” said Myra, earnestly, 
“nor for you, weighted by me. We should 
never get round that eddying whirlpool. It 
would merely mean that we should both be 
drowned. But you can easily do it alone. 
Oh, go at once! Go quickly! And — don’t 


•^YEO HO, WE GO I 


117 


look back. I shall be all right. I shall just 
sit down against the cliff, and wait. I have 
always been fond of the sea.'’ 

Jim Airth looked at her again. And, this 
time, open admiration shone in his keen eyes. 

''Ah, brave!” he said. "A mother of 
soldiers! Such women make of us a fighting 
race.” 

Myra laid her hand on his sleeve. "My 
friend,” she said, "it was never given me to 
be a mother. But I am a soldier’s daughter, 
and a soldier’s widow; and — I am not afraid 
to die. Oh, I do beg of you — give me one 
handclasp and go!” 

Jim Airth took the hand held out, but he 
kept it firmly in his own. 

"You shall not die,” he said, between his 
teeth. "Do you suppose I would leave any 
woman to die alone? And you — ^you, of all 
women! — By heaven,” he repeated, doggedly; 
"you shall not die. Do you think I could go; 
and leave — ” he broke off abruptly. 

Myra smiled. His hand was very strong, 
and her heart felt strangely restful. And had 


j 18 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


he not said: ''You, of all women?*' But, 
even in what seemed likely to be her last 
moments, Lady Ingleby's unfailing instinct 
was to be tactful. 

am sure you would leave no woman 
in danger,** she said; ''and some, alas! might 
have been easier to save than I. Plump little 
Miss Susie would have floated.** 

Jim Airth's big laugh rang out. "And 
Miss Murgatroyd could have sailed away in 
her cameo,** he said. 

Then, as if that laugh had broken the spell 
which held him inactive: "Come,** he cried, 
and drew her to the foot of the cliff; "we have 
not a moment to lose! Look! Do you see 
the way I came down? See that long slide 
in the sand? I tobogganed down there on 
my back. Pretty steep, and nothing to hold 
to, I admit; but not so very far up, after all. 
And, where my slide begins, is a blessed ledge 
four foot by six.** He pulled out a huge 
clasp-knife, opened the largest blade, and 
commenced hacking steps in the face of the 
diff. "We must climb,** said Jim Airth. 


YEO HO, WE GO I 


\\9 


''I have never climbed,’^ whispered Myra's 
Toice behind him. 

‘'You must climb to-day,” said Jim Airth. 

“ I could never even climb trees,” whispered 
Myra. 

“You must climb a cliff to-night. It is 
our only chance.” 

He hacked on, rapidly. 

Suddenly he paused. “Show me your 
reach,” he said. “Mine would not do. Put 
your left hand there; so. Now stretch up 
with your right ; as high as you can, easily. . . . 
Ah! three foot six, or thereabouts. Now 
your left foot close to the bottom. Step up 
with your right, as high as you can comfort- 
ably. . . . Two foot, nine. Good! One 
step, more or less, might make all the dif-' 
ference, by-and-by. Now listen, while I 
work. What a God-send for us that there 
happens to be, just here, this stratum of soft 
sand. We should have been done for, had 
the cliff been serpentine marble. You must 
choose between two plans. I could scrape 
you a step, wider than the rest — ^almost a 


120 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


ledge — ^just out of reach of the water, leaving 
you there, while I go on up, and finish. 
Then I could return for you. You could 
climb in front, I helping from below. You 
would feel safer. Or — ^you must follow me 
up now, step by step, as I ci^t them.” 

”I could not wait on a ledge alone,” said 
Myra. will follow you, step by step.” 

”Good,” said Jim Airth; ”it will save time. 
I am afraid you must take off yom* shoes and 
stockings. Nothing will do for this work, 
but naked feet. We shall need to stick our 
toes into the sand, and make them cling on 
like fingers.” 

He pulled off his own boots and stockings; 
then drew the belt from his Norfolk jacket, 
and fastened it firmly round his left ankle in 
such a way that a long end would hang down 
behind him as he mounted. 

”See that?” he said. ”When you are in 
the niches below me, it will hang close to your 
hands. If you are slipping, and feel you 7nust 
clutch at something, catch hold of that. Only, 
if possible, shout first, and I will stick on like 


YEO HO, WE GOr^ 


121 


a limpet, and try to withstand the strain. 
But don’t do it, unless really necessary.” 

He picked up Myra’s shoes and stockings, 
and put them into his big pockets. 

At that moment an advance wave rushed up 
the sand and caught their bare feet. 

”Oh, Jim Airth,” cj’::‘rMyra, ”go without 
me! I have not a steady head. I cannot 
climb.” 

He put his hands upon her shoulders, and 
locked full into her eyes. 

“You can climb,” he said. ”You must 
climb. You shall climb. We*must climb — 
or drown. And, remember: if you fall, I 
fall too. You will not be saving me, by 
letting yourself go.” 

She looked up into his eyes, despairingly. 
They blazed into hers from beneath his bent 
iDrows. She felt the tremendous mastery of 
his will. Her own gav^ one final struggle. 

” I have nothing to live for, Jim Airth,” she 
said. ” I am alone in the v/orld.” 

”So am I,” he cried. ”I have been worse 
than alone, for a half score of years. But 


m THE MIS TRESS OF SHENSTONE 


there is life to live for. Would you throw 
away the highest of all gifts? I want to live — 
Good God! I must live; and so must you. We 
live or die together.’’ 

He loosed her shoulders and took her by 
the wrists. He lifted her trembling hands, 
and held them against his breast. 

For a moment they stood so, in absolute 
silence. 

Then Myra felt herself completely domi- 
nated. All fear slipped from her; but the 
assurance which took its place was his courage, 
not hers; and she knew it. Lifting her head, 
she smiled at him, with white lips, 
shall not fall,” she said. 

Another wave swept round their ankles, and 
remained there. 

‘"Good,” said Jim Airth, and loosed her 
wrists. “We shall owe our lives to each 
other. Next time I look into your face, 
please God, we shall be in safety. Come!” 

He sprang up the face of the cliff, standing 
in the highest niches he had made. 

“Now follow me, carefully,” he said; 


*^YEOHO, WE GO! 


123 


** slowly, and carefiiUy. We are not in a posi- 
tion to hurry. Always keep each hand and 
each foot firmly in a niche. Are you there? 
Good! . . . Now don't look either up or 
down, but keep your eyes on my heels. 
Directly I move, come on into the empty 
places. See? . . . Now then. Can you 
manage? . . . Good! On we go! After all 
it won't take ijng. ... I say, what fun if 
the Miss Murgatroyds peeped over the cliff! 
Amelia would be so shocked at our bare feet. 
Eliza would cry: 'Oh my dear love!' And 
Susie would promptly fall upon us! Hullo! 
Steady down there! Don't laugh too much. 
. . . Fine knife, this. I bought it in Mexico. 
And if the big blade gives out, there are two 
more; also a saw, and a cork-screw. . . . Mind 
the falling sand does not get into your eyes. 
. . . Tell me if the niches are not deep 
enough, and remember there is no hiury, we 
are not aiming to catch any particular train! 
Steady down there! Don't laugh. . . . Up 
we go! Oh, good! This is a third of the 
way. Don't look either up or down. Watch 


124 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


my heels — I wish they were more worth 
looking at — and remember the belt is quite 
handy, and I am as firm as a rock up here. 
You and all the Miss Murgatroyds might 
hang on to it together. Steady down there! 
. . . All right; I won’t mention them. . . « 
By the way, the water must be fairly deep 
below us now. If you fell, you would merely 
get a ducking. I should slid^. down and pull 
you out, and we would start afresh. . . . 
Good Lord! . . . Oh, never mind! Nothing. 
Only, my knife slipped, but I caught it again. 
. . . We must be half way, by now. How 
lucky we have my glissading marks to guide 
us. I can’t see the ledge from here. Let ’s 
sing 'Nancy Lee.’ I suppose you know it. I 
can always work better to a good rollicking 
tune.” 

Then, as he drove his blade into the cliffy 
Jim Airth’s gay voice rang out: 

"0/ all the wives as e'er you know^ 

Yeo ho! lads! ho! 

Yeo ho! Yeo ho! 

There 's none tike Nancy Lee^ I trow^ 


YEO HO, WE GO! 


125 


Yeo ho! lads! ho! 

Yeo ho! 

See there she stands — Blow! I Ve struck 
a rock! Not a big one though. Remember 
this step will be slightly more to your right 
— and waves her hands, 

Upon the quay, 

And ev'ry day when I *m away, 

She 'll watch for me; 

And whisper low, when tempests blow — 
Oh, hang these unexpected stones! That ’s 
finished my big blade! — For Jack at sea, 

Yeo ho! lads, ho! Yeo ho! 

Now the chorus. 

The sailor's wife the sailor's star shall be , — 
Come on ! You sing too ! ’ ' 

** Yeo ho! we go. 

Across the seal'* 

came Lady Ingleby’s voice from below^ 
rather faint and quavering. 

'' That ’s right ! ” shouted Jim Airth. '' Keep 
it up! I can see the ledge now, just above 
us. 


126 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


The bo' s' n pipes the watch below ^ 

Yeo hoi lads I ho! 

Yeo ho! Yeo ho! 

Then here 's a health afore we go, 

Yeo ho! lads! ho! 

Yeo ho! 

A long, long life to my sweet wife, 

And mates at sea — Keep it up down 
there! I have one hand on the ledge — 
And keep our bones from Davy Jones 
Where'er we be !" 

And — keep our bones — from — 

Davy Jones — who e'er he be," 

quavered Lady Ingleby, making one final 
effort to move up into the vacant niches, 
though conscious that her fingers and toes 
were so numb that she could not feel them 
grip the sand. 

Then Jim Airth’s whole body vanished 
suddenly from above her, as he drew himself 
on to the ledge. 

''Yeo ho! we go!" Came his gay voice 
from above. 


YEO HO, WE GO! " 


127 


‘^Yeohol Yeo hoT 

sang Lady Ingleby, in a faint whisper. 

She conld not move on into the empty 
niches. She could only remain where she 
was, clinging to the face of the cliff. 

She suddenly thought of a fly on a wall; 
and remembered a particular fly, years ago, 
on her nursery wall. She had followed its 
ascent with a small interested finger, and her 
nurse had come by with a duster, and saying: 
'‘Nasty thing!'’ had ruthleSwSly flicked it off. 
The fly had fallen — ^fallen dead, on the 
nursery carpet. . . . Lady Ingleby felt she 
too was falling. She gave one agonised glance 
upward to the towering cliff, with the line of 
sky above it. Then everything swayed and 
rocked. "A mother of soldiers,” her brain 
insisted, "must fall without screaming.” Then 

long arm shot down from above; a 

strong hand gripped her firmly. 

"One step more,” said Jim Airth’s voice, 
close to her ear, "and I can lift you.” 

She made the effort, and he drew her on to 
the ledge beside him. 


r28 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


“Thank you very much/’ said Lady Ingle* 1 
by. “ And who was Davy J ones ? ” i 

Jim Airth’s face was streaming with per- I 
spiration. His mouth was full of sand. His j 
heart was beating in his throat. But he loved I 
to play the game, and he loved to see another 
do it. So he laughed as he put his arm around 
her, holding her tightly so that she should not 
realise how much she was trembling. 

“Davy Jones,” he said, “is a gentleman 
who has a locker at the bottom of the sea, into 
which all drown'd things go. I am afraid 
your pretty parasol has gone there, and my 
boots and stockings. But we may well spare 
him those. . . . Oh, I say! . . . Yes, do 
have a good cry. Don’t mind me. And 
don’t you think betv/een us we could remember 
some sort of a prayer.^ For if ever two people 
faced death together, we have faced it; and, 
by God’s mercy, here we are — alive.” 


CHAPTER XI 


'TWIXT SEA AND SKY 

/WlYRA never forgot Jim Airth’s prayer. 

Instinctively she knew it to be the first 
time he had voiced his sotil’s thanksgiving or 
petitions in the presence of another. Also 
she realised that, for the first time in her whole 
life, prayer became to her a reality. As she 
crouched on the ledge beside him, shaking 
uncontrollably, so that, but for his arm about 
her, she must have lost her balance and fallen; 
as she heard that strong soiil expressing in 
simple unorthodox language its gratitude for 
life and safety, mingled with earnest petition 
for keeping through the night and complete 
deliverance in the morning; it seemed to 
Myra that the heavens opened, and the felt 
presence of God surrounded them in thetr 
strange isolation. 

An immense peace filled her. By the time 

129 


9 


m THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


those disjointed halting sentences were finished, 
Myra had ceased trembling; and when Jim 
Airth, suddenly at a loss how else to wind up 
his prayer, commenced *'Our Father, Who art 
in heaven,” Myra’s sweet voice united with 
his, full of an earnest fervour of petition. 

At the final words, Jim Airth withdrew his 
arm, and a shy silence fell between them. 
The emotion of the mind had awakened an 
awkwardness of body. In that uniting ^*Our 
Father,” their soiils had leapt on, beyond 
where their bodies were quite prepared to 
follow. 

Lady Ingleby saved the situation. She 
turned to Jim Airth, with that impulsive 
sweetness which could never be withstood. 
In the rapidly deepening twilight, he could 
just see he large wistful grey eyes, in the 
white oval of her face. 

Do you know,” she said, I really could n’t 
possibly sit all night, on a ledge the size of a 
Chesterfield sofa, with a person I had to call 
'Mr.’ I could only sit there with an old and 
intimate friend, who would naturally call me 


*TWIXT SEA AND SKY 


131 


'Myra,’ and whom I might call Unless 

I may call you ^Jim,’ I shall insist on climbing 
down and swimming home. And if you 
address me as 'Mrs. O’Mara,’ I shall certainly 
become hysterical, and tumble off!’" 

"Why of course,’* said Jim Airth. " I hate 
titles of any kind. I come of an old Quaker 
stock, and plain names with no prefixes 
always seem best to me. And are we not old 
and trusted friends? Was not each of those 
minutes on the face of the cliff, a year? While 
that second which elapsed between the slipping 
of my knife from my right hand and the 
catching of it, against my knee, by my left, 
may go at ten years! Ah, think if it had 
dropped altogether! No, don’t think. We 
were barely half way up. Now you must 
contrive to put on your shoes andft ockings.” 
He produced them from his pocket. "And 
then we must find out how to place ourselves 
most comfortably and safely. W"e have but 
one enemy to fight during the next seven 
horns — cramp. You must tell me immediately 
if you feel it threatening anywhere. I have 


1 32 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


done a lot of scouting in my time, and know 
a dodge or two. I also know what it is to 
lie in one position for hours, not daring to 
move a muscle, the cold sweat pouring off my 
face, simply from the agonies of cramp. We 
must guard against that.’’ 

''Jim,” said Myra, "hov; long shall we have 
to sit here? ” 

He made a quick movement, as if the sovmd 
of his name from her lips for the first time, 
meant much to him ; and there was in his voice 
an added depth of joyousness, as he answered: 

"It would be impossible to climb from here 
to the top of the cliff. When I came down, I 
had a sheer drop of ten feet. You see the 
cliff slightly overhangs just above us. So far 
as the tide is concerned we might clamber 
down in three hours; but there is no moon, 
and by then, it will be pitch dark, We must 
have light for our descent, if I am to land you 
safe and unshaken at the bottom. Dawn 
should be breaking soon after three. The sun 
rises to-morrow at 3.44; but it will be quite 
light before then. I think we may expect to 


TmXT SEA AND SKY 


133 


reach the Moorhead Inn by 4 a.m. Let us 
hope Miss Murgatroyd will not be looking out 
of her window, as we stroll up the path/' 

‘^What are they all thinking no"^?" ques- 
tioned Lady Ingleby. 

''I don't know, and I don't care," said Jim 
Airth, gaily. "You 're alive, and I 'm alive; 
and we 've done a record climb ! Nothing else 
matters." 

"No, but seriously, Jim?" 

"Well, seriously, it is very unlikely that I 
shall be missed at all. I often dine elsewhere, 
and let myself in quite late; or stop out 
altogether. How about you ? ' ' 

"Why, curiously enough," said Myra, "be- 
fore coming out I locked my bedroom door. 
I have the key here. I had left some papers 
lying about — I am not a very tidy person. 
On the only other occasion upon which I 
locked my door, I omitted dinner altogether, 
and went to bed on returning from my evening 
walk. I am supposed to be doing a 'rest- 
cure' here. The maid tried my door, went 
away, and did not turn up again until next 


1 34 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


morning. Most likely she has done the same 
to-night.'* 

''Then I don't suppose they will send out a 
search-party," said Jim Airth. 

"No. We are so alone down here. We 
only matter to ourselves," said Myra. 

"And to each other," said Jim Airth, 
quietly. 

Myra's heart stood still. 

Those four words, spoken so simply by that 
deep tender voice, meant more to her than 
any words had ever meant. They meant so 
much, that they made for themselves a silence 
— a vast holy temple of wonder and realisa- 
tion wherein they echoed back and forth, 
repeating themselves again and again. 

The two on the ledge sat listening. 

The chant of mutual possession, so sud- 
denly set going, was too beautiful a thing to 
be interrupted by other words. 

Even Lady Ingleby's unfailing habit of 
tactful speech was not allowed to spoil the 
deep sweetness of this unexpected situation. 
Myra's heart was waking; and when the heart 


-rWIXT SEA AND SKY 


135 


is stirred, the mind sometimes forgets to be 
tactful. 

At length: — “Don’t you remember,” he said, 
very low, “what I told you before we began 
to climb? Did I not say, that if we succeeded 
in reaching the ledge safely, we should owe 
our lives to each other? Well, we did; and 
— ^we do.” 

“Ah, no,” cried Myra, impulsively. “No, 
Jim Airth! You — glad, and safe, and free — 
were walking along the top of these cliffs. I, 
in my senseless folly, lay sleeping on the sand 
below, while the tide rose around me. You 
came down into danger to save me, risking 
your life in so doing. I owe you my life, Jim 
Airth; you owe me nothing.” 

The man beside her turned and looked at 
her, with his quiet whimsical smile. 

“I am not accustomed to have my state- 
ments amended,” he said, drily. 

It was growing so dark, they could only 
just discern each other's faces. 

L^dy Ingleby laughed. She was so un- 
used to that kind of remark, that, at 


!36 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


the moment she coiild frame no suitable 
reply. 

Presently: — ''I suppose I realiy owe my 
life to my scarlet parasol,” she said. ^^Had 
it not attracted your attention, you would not 
have seen me.” 

''Should I not?” questioned Jim Airth, his 
eyes on the white loveliness of her face. 
"Since I saw you first, on the afternoon of 
your arrival, have you ever once come within 
my range of vision without my seeing you, 
and taking in every detail?” 

"On the afternoon of my arrival?” ques- 
tioned Lady Ingleby, astonished. 

"Yes,” replied Jim Airth, deliberately. 
"Seven o’clock, on the first of Jime. I stood 
at the smoking-room window, at a loose end of 
all things; sick of myself, dissatisfied with my 
manuscript, tired of fried fish — don’t laugh; 
small things, as well as great, go to make up 
the sum of a man’s depression. Then the 
gate swimg back, and YOU — ^in golden capitals 
— the simlight in your eyes, came up the 
garden path. I judged you to be a woman 


TWIXT SEA AND SKY 


\37 


grown, in years perhaps not far short of my 
own age; I guessed you a woman of the world, 
with a position to fill, and a knowledge of men 
and things. Yet you looked just a lovely 
child, stepping into fairy-land; the joyful 
surprise of unexpected hoHday danced in your 
radiant eyes. Since then, the beautiful side 
of life has always been you — ^YOU , in golden 
capitals.’’ 

Jim Airth paused, and sat silent. 

It was quite dark now. 

Myra slipped her hand into his, which 
closed upon it with a strong unhesitating 
clasp. 

*'Go on, Jim,” she said, softly. 

''I went out into the hall, and saw your 
name in the visitors’ book. The ink was still 
wet. The handwriting was that of the 
holiday-child — I should like to set you copies! 
The name surprised me — agreeably. I had 
expected to be able at once to place the 
woman who had walked up the path. It was 
a surprise and a relief to find that my Fairy- 
land Princess was not after all a fashionable 


B8 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


beauty or a society leader, but owned just a 
simple Irish name, and lived at a Lodge.” 

”Go on, Jim,” said Lady Ingleby, rather 
tremulously. 

^^Then the name *Shenstone’ interested me, 
because I know the Inglebys — ^at least, I 
knew Lord Ingleby, well; and I shall soon 
laiow Lady Ingleby. In fact I have written 
to-day asking for an interview. I must see 
her on business connected with notes of her 
husband's which, if she gives permission, are 
to be embodied in my book. I suppose if you 
live near Shenstone Park you know the 
Inglebys?” 

”Yes,” said Myra. ”But teU me, Jim; 
if — if you noticed so much that first day; 
if you were — ^interested; if you wanted to set 
me copies — ^yes, I know I write a shocking 
hand; — why would you never look at me? 
Why were you so stiff and unfriendly? Why 
were you not as nice to me as you were to 
Susie, for instance?” 

Jim Airth sat long in silence, staring out into 
the darkness. At last he said: 


rWIXT SEA AND SKY 


139 


‘‘I want to tell you. Of course, I must tell 
you. But — may I ask a few questions first? ’’ 

Lady Ingleby also gazed imseeingly into the 
darkness; but she leaned a little nearer to the 
broad shoulder beside her. *‘Ask me what 
you will,’' she said. “There is nothing, in my 
whole life, I would not tell you, Jim Airth.” 

Her cheek was so close to the rough 
Norfolk jacket, that if it had moved a shade 
nearer, she would have rested against it. 
But it did not move; only, the clasp on her 
hand tightened. 

“Were you married very young?” asked 
Jim Airth. 

“I was not quite eighteen. It is ten years 
ago.” 

“ Did you marry for love? ” 

There was a long silence, while both looked 
steadily into the darkness. 

Then Myra answered, speaking very slowly. 
“To be quite honest, I think I married chiefly 
to escape from a very unhappy home. Also 
I was very yoimg, and knew nothing — nothing 
of life, and nothing of love; and — ^how can J 


HO THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


explain, Jim Airth? — I have not leamt much 
during these ten long years.” 

Have you been unhappy?” He asked the 
question very low. 

''Not exactly unhappy. My husband was 
a very good man; kind and patient, beyond 
words, towards me. But I often vaguely 
felt I was missing the Best in life. Now — I 
know I was.” 

"How long have you been — How long has 
he been dead?” The deep voice was so 
tender, that the question could bring no pain. 

''Seven months,” replied Lady Ingleby. 
''My hasband was killed in the assault on 
Targai.” 

"At Targai!” exclaimed Jim Airth, sur- 
prised into betraying his astonishment. Then 
at once recovering himself: ''Ah, yes; of coiirse. 
Seven months. I was there, you know.” 

But, within himself, he was thinking rapidly^ 
and much was becoming clear. 

Sergeant O’ Mara I Was it possible? An 
exquisite refined woman such as this, bearing 
about her the unmistakable hall-mark of 


TWIXT SEA AND SKY 


141 


high birth and perfect breeding? The Sergeant 
was a fine fellow, and superior — ^but, good 
Lord! Her husband! Yet girls of eighteen 
do foolish things, and repent ever after. A 
runaway match from an imhappy home; then 
cast off by her relations, and now left friendless 
and alone. But — Sergeant O’ Mara! Yet 
no other O’Mara fell at Targai; and there 
was some link between him and Lord Ingleby. 

Then, into his musing, came Myra’s soft 
voice, from close beside him, in the darkness: 
“My husband was always good to me; 
but ” 

And Jim Airth laid his other hand over the 
one he held. “I am sure he was,” he said, 
gently. “But if you had been older, and had 
known more of love and life you would have 
done differently. Don’t try to explain. I 
understand.” 

And Myra gladly left it at that. It would 
have been so very difficult to explain further, 
without explaining Michael ; and all that really 
mattered was, that — ^with or without ex“ 
planation — ^Jim Airth understood. 


H2 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTGNE 


‘‘And now — tell me/’ she suggested, softly. 

“Ah, yes,” he said, pulling himself together, 
with an effort. “My experience also misses 
the Best, and likewise covers ten long years. 
But it is a harder one than yoims. I married, 
when a boy of twenty-one, a woman, older 
than myself; supremely beautiful. I went 
mad over her loveliness. Nothing seemed to 
count or matter, but that. I knew she was 
not a good woman, but I thought she might 
become so; and even if she did n’t it made no 
difference. I wanted her. Afterwards I 
found she had laughed at me, all the time. 
Also, there had all the time been another — 
an older man than I — ^who had laughed with 
her. He had not been in a position to marry 
her when I did; but two years later, he came 
into money. Then — she left me.” 

Jim Airth paused. His voice was hard 
with pain. The night was very black. In 
the dark silence they could hear the rhythmic 
thunder of the waves pounding monotonously 
against the cliff below. 

“I divorced her, of course; and he married 


TWIXT SEA AND SKY 


143 


her; but I went abroad, and stayed abroad. 
I never could look upon her as other than my 
wife. She had made a hell of my life; robbed 
me of every illusion; wrecked my ideals; 
imbittered my youth. But I had said, before 
God, that I took her for my wife, until death 
parted us ; and, so long as we were both alive, 
what power could free me from that solemn 
oath? It seemed to me that by remaining 
in another hemisphere, I made her second 
marriage less sinful. Often, at first, I was 
tempted to shoot myself, as a means of right- 
'll ing this other wrong. But in time I outgrew 
i that morbidness, and realised that though 
j Love is good. Life is the greatest gift of all. 
To throw it away, voluntarily, is an un- 
pardonable sin. The suicide’s pimishment 
1 should be loss of immortality. Well, I found 
work to do, of all sorts, in America, and else- 
where. And a year ago — she died. I should 
have come straight home, only I was booked 
for that muddle on the frontier they called ‘a 
war.’ I got fever after Targai; was invalided 
home; and here I am recraiting and finishing 


144 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


my book. Now you can understand why 
loveliness in a woman, fills me with a sort of 
panic, even while a part of me still leaps up 
instinctively to worship it. I had often said 
to myself that if I ever ventured upon matri- 
mony again, it should be a plain face, ^nd a 
noble heart; though all the while I knew I 
should never bring myself really to want the 
plain face. And yet, just as the burnt child 
dreads the fire, I have always tried to look 
away from beauty. Only — ^my Fairy-land 
Princess, may I say it? — days ago I began to 
feel certain that in you — ^YOU in golden 
capitals — ^the loveliness and the noble heart 
went together. But from the moment when, 
stepping out of the sunset, you walked up the 
garden path, right into my heart, the fact of 
YOU, just being what you are, and being here, 
meant so much to me, that I did not dare let 
it mean more. Somehow I never connected 
you with widowhood; and not until you said 
this evening on the shore: *I am a soldier's 
widow,' did I know that you were free. — 
There! Now you have heard all there is to 


TWIXT SEA AND SKY 


145 


hear. I made a bad mistake at the beginning; 
but I hope I am not the sort of chap you 
need mind sitting on a ledge with, and 
calling ‘Jim’.” 

For answer, Myra’s cheek came trustfully 
to rest against the sleeve of the rough tweed 
coat. '‘Jim,” she said; ‘‘Oh, Jim!” 

Presently: ‘‘So you know the Inglebys?” 
remarked Jim Airth. 

‘‘Yes,” said Myra. 

‘‘Is ‘The Lodge’ near Shenstone Park?” 

‘‘ The Lodge is in the park. It is not at any 
of the gates. — I am not a gate-keeper, Jim! — 
It is a pretty little house, standing by itself, 
just inside the north entrance.” 

‘‘ Do you rent it from them? ” 

Myra hesitated, but only for the fraction 
of a second. “No; it is my own. Lord 
Ingleby gave it to me.” 

''Lord Ingleby?” Jim Airth’s voice sounded 
like knitted brows. “ Why not Lady Ingleby?” 

“It was not hers, to give. All that is hers, 
was his.” 


146 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


'' I see. Which of them did you know first? 

''I have known Lady Ingleby all my life,’^ 
said Myra, truthfully; ‘‘and I have known 
Lord Ingleby since his marriage.” 

“Ah. Then he became yotu* friend, be- 
cause he married her?” 

Myra laughed. “Yes,” she said. “I sup- 
pose so.” 

“What ’s the joke?” 

“ Only that it struck me as an amusing way 
of putting it; but it is undoubtedly true.” 

“Have they any children? ” 

Myra’s voice shook slightly. “No, none. 
Why do you ask? ” 

“Well, in the campaign, I often shared 
Lord Ingleby ’s tent ; and he used to talk in his 
sleep.” 

“S^es?” 

“There was one name he often called and 
repeated.” 

Lady Ingleby’s heart stood still. 

“Yes?” she said, hardly breathing. 

“It was ‘Peter’,” continued Jim Airth. 
“The night before he was killed, he kept 


TWIXT SEA AND SKY 


147 


turning in his sleep and saying: Teter! Hullo, 
little Peter! Come here!’ I thought perhaps 
he had a little son named Peter.” 

‘^He had no son,” said Lady Ingleby, 
controlling her voice with effort. Peter 
was a dog of which he was very fond. Was 
that the only name he spoke?” 

''The only one I ever heard,” replied Jim 
Airth. 

Then suddenly Lady Ingleby clasped both 
hands round his arm. 

"Jim,” she whispered, brokenly, "Not once 
have you spoken my name. It was a bargain. 
We were to be old and intimate friends. I 
seem to have been calling you 'Jim’ all my 
life! But you have not yet called me 'Myra.’ 
Let me hear it now, please.” 

Jim Airth laid his big hand over both of 
hers. 

"I can’t,” he said. "Hush! I can’t. Not 
up here — it means too much. Wait until we 
get back to earth again. Then — Oh, I say! 
Can’t you help? ” 

This kind of emotion was an unknown 


148 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


quantity to Lady Ingleby. So was the wild 
beating of her own heart. But she knew the 
situation called for tact, and was not tactful 
speech always her special forte? 

'‘Jim,’' she said," are you not frightfully 
hungry? I should be; only I had an enor- 
mous tea before coming out. Would you 
like to hear what I had for tea? No. I am 
afraid it would make you feel worse. I sup- 
pose dinner at the inn was over, long ago. 
I wonder what variation of fried fish they had, 
and whether Miss Susannah choked over a 
fish-bone, and had to be requested to leave 
the room. Oh, do you remember that evening ? 
You looked so dismayed and alarmed, I quite 
thought you were going to the rescue! I 
wonder what time it is?” 

"We can soon tell that,” said Jim Airth, 
cheerfully. He dived into his pocket, pro- 
duced a matchbox which he had long been 
fingering turn about v/ith his pipe and tobacco- 
pouch, struck a light, and looked at his watch. 
Myra saw the lean brown face, in the weird 
fiare of the match. She also saw the horrid 


TWIXT SEA AND SKY 


149 


depth so close to them, which she had almost 
forgotten. A sense of dizziness came over 
her. She longed to cling to his arm; but 
he had drawn it resolutely away. 

‘'Half past ten,*' said Jim Airth. “Miss 
Murgatroyd has donned her night-cap. Miss 
Eliza has sighed: * Good-nighty summery good- 
nighty gcod-nighty^ at her open lattice; and 
Susie, folding her plump hands, has said: 
* Now I lay me' " 

Myra laughed. “And they will all be 
listening for you to dump out your big boots,” 
she said “That is always your ‘Good-night* 
to the otherwise silent house.’* 

“No, really? Does it make a noise?** said 
Jim Airth, ruefully. “ Never again ** 

“Oh, but you must,** said Myra. “ I love — 
I mean Susie loves the sound, and listens 
for it. Jim, that match reminds me: — 
why don*t you smoke? Surely it would 
help the hunger, and be comfortable and 
cheering.** 

Jim Airth’s pipe and pouch were out in a 
twinkling. 


1 50 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


‘‘Sure you don’t mind? It doesn’t make 
you sick, or give you a headache?” 

‘‘No, I think I like it,” said Myra. “In 
fact, I am sure I like it. That is, I like^’to 
sit beside it. No, I don’t do it myself.” 

Another match flared, and again she saw the 
chasm, and the nearness of the edge. She 
bore it until the pipe was drawing well. Then : 
“Oh, Jim,” she said, “I am so sorry; but I 
am afraid I am becoming dizzy. I feel as 
though I must fall over.” She gave a half sob. 

Jim Airth turned, instantly alert. 

“Nonsense,” he said, but the sharp word 
sounded tender. ‘ ‘ Four good feet of width are 
as safe as forty. Change your position a bit.” 
He put his arm around her, and moved her so 
that she leant more completely against the 
cliff at their backs. “Now forget the edge,” 
he said, “and listen. I am going to tell you 
camp yams, and tales of the Wild West.” 

Then as they sat on in the darkness, Jim 
Airth smoked and talked, painting vivid 
word-pictures of life and adventure in other 
lands. And Myra Ustened, absorbed and 


TWIXT SEA AND SKY 


151 


enchanted; every moment realising more fully, 
as he unconsciously revealed it, the manly 
strength and honest simplicity of his big 
nature, with its fun and its fire; its huge 
tepacity for enjoyment; its corresponding 
capacity for pain. 

And, as she listened, her heart said: ‘*Oh, 
my cosmopolitan cowboy! Thank God you 
fotmd no title in the book, to put you off. 
Thank God you found no name which you 
could ‘place,’ relegating its poor possessor to 
the ranks of ‘society leaders’ in which you 
would have had no share. And, oh! most 
of all, I thank God for the doctor’s wise 
injunction: ‘Leave behind you your own 
ident'ty’i” 


CHAPTER XII 


UNDER THE MORNING STAR 

'T'HE night wore on. 

* Stars shone in the deep purple sky; 
bright watchful eyes looking down unw'earied 
upon the sleeping world. 

The sound of the sea below fell from a roar 
to a murmur, and drew away into the distance. 

It was a warm June night, and very still. 

Jim Airth had moved along the ledge to the 
further end, and sat swinging his legs over the 
edge. His content was so deep and fiill, that 
ordinary speech seemed impossible ; and silence, 
a glad necessity. The prospect of that which 
the future might hold in store, made the ledge 
too narrow to contain him. He sought relief 
in motion, and swung his long legs out into the 
darkness. 

It had not occurred to him to wonder at his 


UNDER THE MORNING STAR 


153 


companion’s silence; the reason for his own 
had been so all-sufficient. 

At length he struck a match to see the time; 
then, turning with a smile, held it so that its 
light illumined Myra. 

She knelt upon the ledge, her hands pressed 
against the overhanging cliff, her head turned 
in terror away from it. Her face was ashen in 
its whiteness, and large tears rolled down her 
cheeks. 

Jim dropped the match, with an exclama- 
tion, and groped towards her in the darkness. 

“Dear!” he cried. “Oh, my dear, what is 
the matter? Selfish fool, that I am! I 
thought you were just resting, quiet and 
content.” 

His groping hands found and held her. 

“Oh, Jim,” sobbed Lady Ingleby, “I am 
so sorry! It is so weak and unworthy. But 
I am afraid I feel faint. The whole cliff 
seems to rock and move. Every moment I 
fear it will tip me over. And you seemed 
miles away!” 

“You are faint,” said Jim Airth; “and no 


154 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


wonder. There is nothing weak or unworthy 
about it. You have been quite splendid. It 
is I who have been a thoughtless ass. But I 
can't have you fainting up here. You must 
lie down at once. If I sit on the edge with 
my back to you, can you slip along behind me 
and lie at full length, leaning against the 
cliff?" 

''No, oh no, I could n't !" whispered Myra. 
"It frightens me so horribly when you hang 
your legs over the edge, and I can't bear to 
touch the cliff. It seems worse than the black 
emptiness. It rocks to and fro, and seems to 
push me over. Oh, Jim! What shall I do? 
Help me, help me!" 

"You must lie down," said Jim Airth, 
between his teeth. "Here, wait a minute. 
Move out a little way. Don't be afraid. 
I have hold of you. Let me get behind 
you. . . . That 's right. Now you are not 
touching the cliff. Let me get my shoulders 
firmly into the hollow at this end, and my 
feet fixed at the other. There! With my 
back rammed into it like this, nothing short 


UNDER THE MORNING STAR 155 


of an earthquake could dislodge me. Now 
dear — turn your back to me and your face 
to the sea and let yourself go. You will not 
fall over. Do not be afraid.” 

Very gently, but very firmly, he drew her 
into his arms. ^ 

Tired, frightened, faint, — Lady Ingleby 
was conscious at first of nothing save the 
intense relief of the sense of his great strength 
about her. She seemed to have been fighting 
the cliff and resisting the gaping darkness, 
until she was utterly worn out. Now she 
yielded to his gentle insistence, and sank 
into safety. Her cheek rested against his 
rough coat, and it seemed to her more soothing 
than the softest pillow. With a sigh of con- 
tent, she folded her hands upon her breast, 
and he laid one of his big ones firmly 
over them both. She felt so safe, and 
held. 

Then she heard Jim Airth’s voice, close to 
her ear. 

”We are not alone,” he said. ‘‘You must 
try to sleep, dear: but first I want you to 


156 THE MISTRESS OF SHEN STONE 


realise that we are not alpne. Do you know 
what I mean? God is here. When I was a 
very little chap, I used to go to a Dame-school 
in the Highlands; and the old dame made me 
learn by heart the hundred and thirty-ninth 
psalm. I have repeated parts of it in all sorts 
of places of difficulty and danger. I am going 
to say my favourite verses to you now. 
Listen. ^Whither shall I go from Thy Spirit? 
or whither shall I flee from Thy presence? . . . 
If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell 
in the uttermost parts of the sea; even there 
shall Thy hand lead me, and Thy right hand 
shall hold me. If I say. Surely the dark- 
less shall cover me ; even the night shall be light 
about me. Yea, the darkness hideth not from 
Thee; but the night shineth as the day: the 
darkness and the light are both alike to Thee. 

. . . How precious also are Thy thoughts 
unto me, O God! how great is the sum of 
them. If I should count them they are more 
in number than the sand: when I awake I am 
still with Thee.’ ” 

The deep voice ceased. Lady Inglebv 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE AWAKENING 

\ ^HEN Lady Ingleby opened her eyes, she 
could not, for a moment, imagine where 
she was. 

Dawn was breaking over the sea. A rift 
of silver, in the purple sky, had taken the 
place of the morning star. She could see the 
silvery gleam reflected in the ocean. 

''Why am I sleeping so close to a large 
window? ’’ queried her bewildered mind. " Or 
am I on a balcony? ” 

"Why do I feel so extraordinarily strong 
and rested? ’’ questioned her slowly awakening 
body. 

She lay quite still and considered the matter. 

Then looking down, she saw a large brown 
hand clasping both hers. Her head was 
resting in the curve of the arm to which the 
159 


160 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


hand belonged. A strong right arm was 
flung over and aroimd her. All questionings 
were solved by two short words: '‘Jim Airth.’' 

Lady Ingleby lay very still. She feared to 
break the deep spell of restfulness which lield 
her. She hesitated to bring down to earth the 
exquisite sense of heaven, by which she was 
surrounded. 

As the dawn broke over the sea, a wonderfiil 
light dawned in her eyes, a radiance such as 
had never shone in those sweet eyes before. 
“Dear God,“ she whispered, “am I to know 
the Best?“ 

Then she gently withdrew one hand, and 
laid it on the hand which had covered both. 

“Jim,’' she said. “Jim! Look! It is day.” 

“Yes? ” came Jim Airth’s voice from behind 
her. “Yes? What? come in! — Hullo! Oh, I 
say!” 

Myra smiled into the dawning. She had 
already come through those first moments 
of astonished realisation. But Jim Airth 
awoke to the situation more quickly than s e 
had done. 


THE AWAKENING 


161 


'' Hullo ! he said. “ I meant to keep watch 
all the time; but I must have slept. Are you 
all right? Sure? No cramp? Well, I have a 
cramp in my left leg which will make me kick 
down the cliff in another minute, if I don’t 
move it. Let me help you up. . . . That ’s 
the way. Now you sit safely there, while I 
get unwedged. . . . By Jove! I believe I Ve 
grown into the cliff, like a fossil ichthyosaurus. 
Did you ever see an ichthyosaurus? Does n’t 
it seem years since you said : ‘And who is Davy 
Jones?’ Don’t you want some breakfast? 
I suppose it ’s about time we went home.” 

Talking gaily all the time, Jim Airth drew 
up his long limbs, rubbing them vigorously; 
stretched his arms above his head ; then passed 
his hand over his tumbled hair. 

“My wig!” he said. “What a morning! 
And how good to be alive ! ” 

Myra stole a look at him. His eyes were 
turned seaward. The same dawn-light was 
in them, as shone in her own. 

“Don’t you want breakfast?” said Jim 
Airth, and pulled out his watch, 

XI 


162 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


“I do/' said. Myra, gaily. '"And now I 
can venture to tell you what delicious home' 
made bread I had for tea. What time is itj, 
Jim?" 

"Half past three. In a few minutes the 
]sun will rise. Watch! Did you ever before 
isee the dawn? Is it not wonderful? Always 
f more of pearl and silver than at sunset. Look 
how the narrow rift has widened and spread 
jright across the sky. The Monarch of Day is 
/coming! See the little herald clouds, in livery 
pf pink and gold. Now watch where the sea 
looks brightest. Ah! . . . There is the tip 
of his blood-red rim, rising out of the oceaUo 
And how quickly the whole ball appears^ 
Now see the rippling path of gold and 
i crimson, a royal highway on the waters, 

: right from the shore below us, to the 
footstool of his brilliant Majesty. ... A 
new day has begun; and we have not said 
'Good-morning.' Why should we? We did 
not say 'Good-night.' How ideal it would be, 
never to say ' Good-moming ' ; and never to say 
’’Good-night.' The night would be always 


THE AWAKENING 


163 


^good’, and so would the morning. All life 
would be one grand crescendo of good — 
better — ^best. What? Have we found the 
Best? Ah, hush! I did not mean to say that 
yet. . . . Are you ready for the climb 
down? No, I can’t allow any peeping over, 
and considering. If you really feel afraid 
of it, I will run to Tregarth as quickly as 
possible, rouse the sleeping village, bring ropes 
and men, and haul you up from the top.” 

absolutely decline to be ^hauled up from 
the top,’ or to be left here alone,” declared 
Lady Ingleby. 

“Then the sooner we start down, the better,” 
said Jim Airth. “I ’m going first.” He was 
over the edge before Myra could open her lips 
to expostulate. “Now turn, round. Hold on 
to the ledge firmly with your hands, and give 
me your feet. Do you hear? Do as I tell 
you. Don’t hesitate. It is less steep than 
it seemed yesterday. We are quite safe. 
Come on! *. . . That ’s right.” 

Then Lady Ingleby passed through a most 
terrifying five minutes, while she yielded in 


y 64 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


blind obedience to the strong hands beneath 
her, and the big voice which encouraged ana 
threatened alternately. 

Bat when the descent was over and she 
stood on the shore beside Jim Airth; when 
together they turned and looked in silence up 
the path of glory on the rippling waters, to 
the blazing beauty of the rising siui, thankful 
tears rushed to Lady Ingleby’s eyes. 

“Oh, Jim,’’ she exclaimed, “God is good! 
It is so wonderful to be alive!” 

Then Jim Airth turned, his face transfigured^ 
the sunlight in his eyes, and opened his armSo 
“Myra,” he said. “We have found the 
Best.” 


They walked along the shore, and up the 
steep street of the sleeping village, hand in 
hand like happy children. 

Arrived at the Moorhead Inn, they pushed 
open the garden gate, and stepped noiselessly 
across the simlit lawn. 

The front door was firmly bolted. Jim 


THE AWAKENING 


165 


Airth sliDped romid to the back, but re- 
turned in a minute shaking his head. Then 
he felt in his pocket for the big knife 
which had served them so well; pushed back 
the catch of the coffee-room window; softly 
raised the sash; swtmg one leg over, and 
drew Myra in after him. 

Once in the familiar room, with its mustard- 
pots and salt-cellars, its table-cloths, left on 
in readiness for breakfast, they both lapsed 
into fits of uncontrollable laughter; laughter 
the more overwhelming, because it had to be 
silent. 

Jim, recovering first, went off to the larder 
to forage for food. 

Lady Ingleby flew noiselessly up to her 
room to wash her hands, and smooth her hair. 
She returned in two minutes to find Jim, 
very proud of his success, setting out a crusty 
home-made loaf, a large cheese, and a foaming 
tankard of ale. 

Lady Ingleby longed for tea, and had never 
in her life drunk ale out of a pewter pot. 
But not for worlds would she have spoiled 


166 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


Jim Airth’s boyish delight in the success of 
his raid on the larder. 

So they sat at the centre table, Myra in 
Miss Murgatroyd’s place, and Jim in Susie’s, 
and consumed their bread-and-cheese, and 
drank their beer, with huge appetites and 
prodigious enjoyment. And Jim used Miss 
Susannah’s napkin, and pretended to be 
sentimental over it. And Myra reproved him, 
after the manner of Miss Murgatroyd reprov- 
ing Susie. After which they simultaneously 
exclaimed: ^‘Oh, my dear love!” in Miss 
Eliza’s most affecting manner; then linked 
fingers for a wish, and could neither of them 
think of one. 

By the time they had finished, and cleared 
away, it was half past five. They passed into 
the hall together. 

‘'You must get some more sleep,” said Jim 
Airth, authoritatively. 

“I will, if you wish it,” whispered Myrat 
“but I never, in my whole life, felt so strong 
or so rested. Jim, I shall sit at your table, 
and pour out your coffee at breakfast. Let 's 


THE AWAKENING 


aim to have it at nine, as usual. It will be 
such fim to watch the Murgatroyds, and to 
remember our cheese and beer. If you are 
down first, order our breakfasts at the same 
table.” 

”A11 right,” said Jim Airth. 

Myra commenced mounting the stairs, 
but turned on the fifth step and himg over the 
banisters to smile at him. 

Jim Airth reached up his hand. ‘‘How can 
I let you go? ” he exclaimed suddenly. 

Myra leaned over, and smiled into his 
adoring eyes. 

‘‘How can I go?” she whispered, tenderly. 

Jim Airth took both her hands in his. His 
eyes blazed up into hers. 

‘‘Myra,” he said, ‘‘when shall we be 
married?” 

Myra’s face flamed, just as the soft white 
clouds had flamed when the sun arose. 
But she met the fire of his eyes without 
flinching. 

“When you will, Jim,” she answered 
gently. 


168 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


‘'As soon as possible, then,” said Jim 
Airth, eagerly. 

Myra withdrew her hands, and mounted 
two more steps; then turned to bend and 
whisper: “Why? ” 

“Because,” replied Jim Airth, “I do not 
know how to bear that there should be a day, 
or an hour, or a minute, when we cannot be 
together.” 

“Ah, do you feel that, too?” whispered 
Myrs,. 

‘ ‘ Too? ” cried Jim Airth. ‘ ' Do you — Myra! 
Comeback!” 

But Lady Ingleby fled up the stairs like a 
hare. She had not run so fast since she was 
a little child of ten. He heard her happy 
laugh, and the closing of her door. 

Then he unbarred the front entrance; and^ 
stepping out, stood in the simshine, on the 
path where he had seen his Fairy-land Princess 
arrive. 

He stretched his arms over his head. 

‘ ‘ Mine 1 ” he said. ‘ ‘ Mine, altogether ! Oh, 
my God! At last, I have won the Highest!” 


THE AWAKENING 


169 


Then he raced down the street to the beach; 
and five minutes later, in the full strength of 
his vigorous manhavd. he was swimming up 
the golden path, towards the rising sim. 


CHAPTER XIV 


GOLDEN DAYS 


HE week which followed was one of ideal 



* joy and holiday. Both knew, instinc- 
tively, that no after days could ever be quite 
as these first days. They were an experience 
which came not again, and must be realised 
and enjoyed with whole-hearted completeness. 

At first Jim Airth talked with determination 
of a special licence, and pleaded for no delay. 
But Lady Ingleby, usually vague to a degree 
on all questions of law or matters of business, 
fortimately felt doubtful as to whether it 
would be wise to be married in a name other 
than her own; and, though she might have 
solved the difficulty by at once revealing her 
identity to Jim Airth, she was anxious to 
choose her own time and place for this revela- 


GOLDEN DAYS 


171 


tion, and had set her heart upon making it 
amid the surroundings of her own beautifiil 
home at Shenstone. 

“You see, Jim,’’ she urged, “I have a few 
friends in town and at Shenstone, who take 
an interest in my doings; and I could hardly 
reappear among them married! Could I, 
Jim? It would seem such an unusual and 
unexpected termination to a rest-cure. 
Would n’t it, Jim?” 

Jim Airth’s big laugh brought Miss Susie 
to the window. It caused sad waste of 
Susannah’s time, that her window looked out 
on the honeysuckle arbour. 

“It might make quite a run on rest-cures,” 
said Jim Airth. 

“Ah, but they couldn’t all meet you/* 
said Myra; and the look he received from those 
sweet eyes, atoned for the vague inaccuracy 
of the rejoinder. 

So they agreed to have one week of this free 
untrammelled life, before retirming to the 
world of those who knew them; aixd he pro- 
mised to come and see her in her own home, 


m rHE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


before taking the final steps which should make 
her altogether his. 

So they went gay walks along the cliffs in 
the breezy sunshine; and Myra, clinging to 
Jim's arm, looked down from above upon 
their ledge. 

They revisited Horseshoe Cove at low 
water, and Jim Airth spent hours cutting the 
hurried niches into proper steps, so as to leave 
a staircase to the ledge, up which people, who 
chanced in future to be caught by the tide, 
might climb to safety. Myra sat on the beach 
and watched him, her eyes alight with tender 
memories; but she absolutely refused to mount 
again. 

''No, Jim,” she said; "not until we come 
here on our honeymoon. Then, if you wish, 
you shall take your wife back to the place 
where we passed those wonderful hours. But 
not now.” 

Jim, w’ho expected always to have his own 
way, unless he was given excellent reasons in 
black and white for not having it, was about 
to expostulate and insist, when he saw tears 


GOLDEN DAYS 


173 


on her lashes and a quiver of the sweet smiling 
lips, and gave in at once without further 
question. 

They hired a tent, and pitched it on the 
shore at Tregarth, Myra telegraphed for a 
bathing-dress, and Jim went into the sea in 
his flannels and tried to teach her to swim, 
holding her up beneath her chin and sayings 
‘'One, two! one, two!’' far louder than Myra 
had ever had it said to her before. Thus, 
amid much splashing and laughter. Lady 
Ingleby accomplished her swim of ten yards. 

Miss Murgatroyd was shocked; nay, 
more than shocked. Miss Murgatroyd was 
scandalised! She took to her bed forthwith, 
expecting Miss Eliza and Miss Susannah to 
follow her example — in the spirit, if not to the 
letter. But, released from Amelia’s personal 
supervision, romantic little Susie led Eliza 
astray ; and the two took a furtive and fearful 
joy in seeing all they could of the "goings on” 
of the couple who had boldly converted the 
prosaic Cornish hotel into a land of excite* 
ment and romance. 


f 74 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


From the moment when on the morning 
after their adventure, Myra, with yellow roses 
in the belt of her white gown, had swept into 
the coffee-room at five minutes past nine, 
saying: ''My dear Jim, have I kept you 
waiting? I hope the coffee is not cold?” — 
all life had seemed transformed to Miss 
Susie. Turning quickly, she had caught the 
look Jim Airth gave to the lovely woman who 
took her place opposite him at his hitherto 
lonely table, and, still smiling into his eyes, 
lifted the coffee-pot. 

Amelia’s stem whisper had recalled her to 
her senses, and prevented any further glancing 
round ; but she had heard Myra say : "I forgot 
your sugar, Jim. One lump, or two?” and 
Jim Airth’s reply: "As usual, thanks, dear,” 
not knowing, that with a silent twinkle of 
fun, he laid an envelope over his cup, as a 
sign to Myra, waiting with poised sugar-tongs, 
that "as usual” meant no sugar at all! 

Later on, when she one day met Lady 
Ingleby alone in a passage. Miss Susannah 
ventured two hurried questions. 


GOLDEN DAYS 


m 


‘‘Oh, tell me, my dear! Is it really true 
that you are going to marry Mr. Airth? And 
have you known him long?'’ 

And Myra smiling down into Susie's plump 
anxious face replied: “Well, as a matter of 
fact. Miss Susannah, Jim Airth is going to 
marry me. And I cannot explain how long 
I have known him. I seem to have known 
him all my life." 

“Ah," whispered Miss Susannah with a 
knowing smile of conscious perspicacity; 
“ Eliza and I felt sure it was a tiff." 

This remark appeared absolutely incom- 
prehensible to Lady Ingleby; and not until 
she had repeated it to Jim, and he had shouted 
with laughter, and called her a bare-faced 
deceiver, did she realise that the “tiff" was 
supposed to have been operative during the 
whole time she and Jim Airth had sat at 
separate tables, and showed no signs of 
acquaintance. 

However, she smiled kindly into the archly 
nodding face. Then, in the consciousness 
of her own great happiness, enveloped little 


1 76 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


Susie in her beautiful arms, and kissed 
her. 

Miss Susannah never forgot that embrace. 
It was to her a reflected realisation of what it 
must be to be loved by Jim Airth. And, 
thereafter, whenever Miss Murgatroyd saw 
fit to use such adjectives as ''indecent,’’ 
"questionable,” or "highly improper,” Miss 
Susie bravely gathered up her wool-work, 
and left the room. 

Thus the golden days went by, and a letter 
came for Jim Airth from Lady Ingleby’s 
secretary. Her ladyship was away at present 
but would be returning to Shenstone on the 
following Monday, and would be pleased to 
give him an interview on Tuesday afternoon. 
The two o’clock express from Charing Cross 
would be met at Shenstone station, unless he 
wrote suggesting another. 

"Now that is very civil,” said Jim to Myra, 
as he passed her the letter, "and how* well it 
suits our plans. We had already arranged 
both to go up to town on Monday, and you on 
to Shenstone. So I can come down by that 


GOLDEN DAYS 


177 


two o’clock train on Tuesday, get my interview 
with Lady Ingleby over as quickly as may be, 
and dash off to my girl at the Lodge. I hope 
to goodness she won’t want to give me tea!” 

” Which ^she’?” asked Myra, smiling. 
shall certainly want to give you tea.” 

'‘Then I shall decline Lady Ingleby’s,” 
said Jim with decision. 

Even during those wonderful days he went 
on steadily with his book, Myra sitting near 
him in the smoking-room, writing letters or 
reading, while he worked. ‘‘I do better work 
if you are within reach, or at all events, within 
sight,” Jim had said; and it was impossible 
that Lady Ingleby’s mind should not have 
contrasted the thrill of pleasure this gave her, 
with the old sense of being in the way if work 
was to be done; and of being shut out from the 
chief interests of Michael’s life, by the closing 
of the laboratory door. Ah, how different 
from the way in which Jim already made her 
a part of himself, enfolding her into his every 
interest. 

She wrote fiilly of her happiness to Mrs. 


1 78 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


Dalmain, telling her in detail the unusual 
happenings which had brought it so rapidly 
lo pass. Also a few lines to her old friend the 
Duchess of Meldrum, merely announcing the 
fact of her engagement and the date of her 
return to Shenstone, promising full particulars 
later. This letter held also a message for 
Ronald and Billy, should they chance to be at 
Overdene. 

Sunday evening, their last at Tregarth, 
came all too soon. They went to the little 
church together, sitting among the simple 
fisher folk at Evensong. As they looked over 
one hymn book, and sang Eternal Father, 
strong to save,’’ both thought of '‘Davy 
Jones” in the middle of the hymn, and had to 
exchange a smile; yet with an instant added 
reverence of petition and thanksgiving. 

“Thus evermore, shall rise to Thee, 

Glad hymns of praise from land and sea.” 

Jim Airth’s big bass boomed through the 
little church; and Myra, close to his shoulder^, 


GOLDEN DAYS 


179 


sang with a face so radiant that none could 
doubt the reality of her praise. 

Then back to a cold supper at the M 'Or- 
head Inn; after which they strolled out to the 
honeysuckle arbour for Jim’s evening pipe, 
and a last quiet talk. 

It was then that Jim Airth said, suddenly: 
‘^By the way I wish you would tell me more 
about Lady Ingleby. What kind of a woman 
is she? Easy to talk to? ” 

For a moment Myra was taken a- 
back. '‘Why, Jim — I hardly know. Easy? 
Yes, I think yotc will find her easy to talk 
to.” 

“Does she speak of her husband’s death, 
or is it a tabooed subject?” 

“She speaks of it,” said Myra, softly, 
“to those who can understand.” 

“Ah! Do you suppose she will lilce to hear 
details of those last days? ” 

“ Possibly; if you feel inclined to give them. 
Jim — do you know who did it? ” 

A surprised silence in the arbour. Jim 
removed his pipe, and looked at her. 


m THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


“Do I know — ^who — did — ^what?“ he asked 
slowly. 

“Do you know the name of the man who 
made the mistake which killed Lord Ingleby ? ” 

Jim returned his pipe to his mouth. 

“Yes, dear, I do,“ he said, quietly. “But 
how came you to know of the blunder? I 
thought the whole thing was hushed up, at 
home.” 

“It was,” said Myra; “but Lady Ingleby 
was told, and I heard it then. Jim, if she 
asked you the name, should you tell her?” 

“Certainly I should,” replied Jim Airth. 
“I was strongly opposed, from the first, to 
any mystery being made about it. I hate a 
hushing-up policy. But there was the fellow’s 
future to consider. The world never lets a 
thing of that sort drop. He would always 
have been pointed out as ‘The chap who killed 
Ingleby’ — just as if he had done it on purpose; 
and every man of us knew that would be a 
millstone round the neck of any career. And 
then the whole business had been somewhat 
irregular; and ‘the powers that be’ have a 


GOLDEN DAYS 


181 


Iway of taking all the kudos, if experiments are 
(successful; and making a what-on-earth-were- 
you-dreaming-of row, if they chance to be a 
failure. Hence the fact that we are all such 
istick-in-the-muds, in the service. Nobody 
idares be original. The risks are too great, 
/and too ' astonishingly unequal. If you suc- 
ceed, you get a D. S. O. from a grateful 
government, and a laurel crown from an 
admiring nation. If you fail, an indignant 
populace derides your name, and a pained and 
astonished government claps you into jail. 
That ’s not the way to encourage progress, 
or make fellows prompt to take the initiative. 
The right or the wrong of an action should not 
be determined by its success or failure.'' 

Lady Ingleby's mind had paused at the 
beginning of Jim's tirade. 

^‘They could not have taken Michael's 
kudos," she said. ''It must have been 
patented. He was always most careful to 
patent all his inventions." 

^^Eh, what?" said Jim Airth. *^Oh, I see. 
'Kudos,' my dear girl, means 'glory'; not a 


182 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


new kind of explosive. And why do you call 
Lord Ingleby 'Michael’ ?*' 

"I knew him intimately,” said Lady 
Ingleby. 

"I see. Well, as I was saying, I protested 
about the hushing up, tut was talked over; 
and the few who knew the facts pledged their 
word of honour to keep silence. Only, the 
name was to be given to Lady Ingleby, if she 
desired to know it; and some of us thought 
you might as well put it in The Times at 
once, as tell a woman. Then we heard she had 
decided not to know.” 

"What do you think of her decision?” 
asked Lady Ingleby. 

"I think it proved her to be a very just- 
minded woman, and a very unusual one, if 
she keeps to it. But it would be rather like a 
woman, to make a fine decision such as that 
during the tension of a supreme moment, and 
then indulge in private speculition after 
wards.” 

"Did you hear her reason, Jim? She 
said she did not wish that a man should 


GOLDEN DAYS 


183 


walk this earth, whose hand she could not 
bring herself to touch in friendship.’’ 

^^Poor loyal soul!” said Jim Airth, greatly 
moved. ' ‘ Myra, if I got accidentally done for, 
as Ingleby was, — should you feel so, for my 
sake?” 

“No!” cried Myra, passionately. “If I 
lost you, my belovdd, I should never want to 
touch any other man’s hand, in friendship or 
otherwise, as long as I lived!” 

“Ah,” mused Jim Airth. “Then you don’t 
consider Lady Ingleby’s reason for her decision 
proved a love such as ours? ” 

Myra laid her beautiful head against his 
shoulder. 

“Jim,” she said, brokenly, “I do not feel 
myself competent to discuss any other love. 
One thing only is clear to me: — I never 
realised what love meant, until I knew you.'' 

A long silence in the honeysuckle arbour. 

Then Jim Airth cried almost fiercely to the 
woman in his arms: “Can you really think 
you have been right to keep me waiting, even 
for a day?” 


i 84 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


And she who loved him with a love beyond 
expression could frame no words in answer 
to that question. Thus it came to pass that, 
in the days to come, it was there, imanswered ; 
ready to return and beat upon her brain with 
merciless reiteration: '‘Was I right to keep 
him waiting, even for a day.” 

In the hall, beside the marble table, where 
lay the visitors’ book, they paused to say 
good-night. From the first, Myra had never 
allowed him up the stairs until her door was 
closed. “If you don’t keep the rules I think 
it right to make, Jim,” she had said, with her 
little tender smile, “I shall, in self-defence, 
engage Miss Murgatroyd as chaperon; and 
what sort of a time would you have then? ” 

So Jim was pledged to remain below until 
her door had been shut five minutes. After 
which he used to tramp up the stairs whistling: 

“A long long life, to my sweet wife, 

And mates at sea ; 

And keep onr bones from Davy Jones, 
Where’er we be. 

And may you meet a mate as sweet ” 


GOLDEN DAYS 


185 


Then his door would bang, and Myra 
would venture to give vent to her sup- 
pressed laughter, and to sing a soft little 

“ Yeo ho! we go! — Yeo ho! Yeo ho!” 

for sheer overflowing happiness. 

But this was the last evening. A parting 
impended. Also there had been tense mo- 
ments in the honeysuckle arbom*. 

Jim’s blue eyes were mutinous. He stood 
holding her hands against his breast, as he had 
done in Horseshoe Cove, when the waves 
swept round their feet, and he had cried: 

You must climb!” 

''So to-morrow night,” he said, "you will 
be at the Lodge, Shenstone; and I, at my Club 
in town. Do you know how hard it is to be 
away from you, even for an hour? Do you 
realise that if you had not been so obstinate 
we never need have been parted at all? We 
could have gone away from here, husband and 
wife together. If you had really cared, you 
would n’t have wanted to wait.” 

Myra smiled up into his angry eyes. 


186 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


''Jim/’ she whispered, "it is so silly to say: 
' If you had really cared’ ; because you know, 
perfectly well, that I care for you, more 
than any woman in the world has ever cared 
for any man before! And I do assure you, 
Jim, that you could n’t have married me 
validly from here — ^and think how awful it 
would be, to love as much as we love and then 
find out that we were not validly married — 
and when you come to my home, and fetch 
me away from there, you will admit — ^yes 
really admit — ^that I was right. You will 
have to apologise humbly for having said 
‘Bosh!’ so often. Jim — dearest! Look at 
the clock! I must go. Poor Miss Murgatroyd 
will grow so tired of listening for us. She 
always leaves her door a crack open. So 
does Miss Susannah. They have all taken to 
sleeping with their doors ajar. I deftly led 
the conversation round to riddles yesterday, 
when I was alone with them for a few minutes, 
and asked sternly: 'When is a door, not a 
door?’ They all answered: 'When it is a jar!’ 
quite unabashed; and Miss Eliza asked an- 


GOLDEN DAYS 


187 


other! I believe Susie stands at her crack, in 
the darkness, in hopes of seeing you march by. 
... No, don’t say naughty words. They are 
dears, all three of them; and we shall miss them 
horribly to-morrow. Oh, Jim — I ’ve just had 
such a brilliant ideal I shall ask them to be 
my bridesmaids! Can’t you see them follow- 
ing me up the aisle? It would be worse than 
the duchess giving Jane away. Ah, you don’t 
know that story? I will tell it you, some day. 
Jim, say ‘Good-night’ quickly, and let me go.” 

“ Once,” said Jim Airth, tightening his grasp 
on her wrists — “once, M3rra, we said no 
‘good-night,’ and nc ‘good-moming.’ ” 

“Jim, darling!” said Myra, gently; “on that 
night, before I went to sleep, you said to me: 
‘We are not alone. God is here' And then 
you repeated part of the hundred and thirty- 
ninth psalm. And, Jim — I tho:ight you the 
best and strongest man I had ever known; and 
I felt that, all my life, I should trust you, as I 
trusted my God.” 

Jim Airth loosed the hands he had held so 
tightly, and kissed them very gently. ‘ ‘ Good- 


1 88 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


night, my sweetheart,^* he said, ^‘and God 
bless you!** Then he turned away to the 
marble table. 

Myra ran swiftly up the stairs and closed 
her door. 

Then she knelt beside her bed, and sobbed 
uncontrollably; partly for joy, and partly for 
sorrow. The tmanswered question com- 
menced its reiteration: ''Ah, was I right to 
keep him waiting? ** 

Presently she lifted her head, held her 
breath, and stared into the darkness. A 
vision seemed* to pass across her room. A 
tall, bearded man, in evening clothes. In his 
arms a tiny dog, peeping at her through its 
curls, as if to say: "/ have the better place. 
V'lere do you come in?*’ The tall man 
turned at the door. "Good-night, my dear 
Myra,** he said, kindly. 

The vision passed. 

Lady Ingleby buried her face in the bed- 
clothes. "That — for ten long years!” she 
said. Then, in the darkness, she saw the 
mutinous fire of Jim Airth’s blue eyes, and 


GOLDEN DAYS 


189 


felt the grip of his strong hands on hers. 
‘‘How can I say ‘Good-night’?” protested his 
deep voice, passionately. And, with a rush 
of happy tears, Myra clasped her hands, 
whispering: “Dear God, am I at last to know 
the Best?” 

And up the stairs came Jim Airth, whistling 
like a nightingale. But, as a concession to 
Miss Murgatroyd’s ideas concerning suitable 
Sabbath music, he discarded “Nancy Lee,” 
and whistled: 

** Eternal Father, strong to save. 

Whose arm hath bound the restless wave; 

Who bidst the mighty ocean deep, 

Its own appointed limits keep, 

O hear us, when we cry to Thee 

And, kneeling beside her bed, in the dark- 
ness, Myra made of it her evening prayer. 


CHAPTER XV 


''where is lady ingleby?" 

\^HEN Jim Airth left the train on the fol- 
^ lowing Tuesday afternoon, he looked 
eagerly up and down the platform, hoping to 
see M3rra. True, they had particularly ar- 
ranged not to meet, imtil after his interview 
with Lady Ingleby. But Myra was so charm- 
ingly inconsequent and impulsive in her 
actions. It would be quite like her to reverse 
the whole plan they had made; and, if her 
desire to see him, in any measure resembled 
his huge hunger for a sight of her, he could 
easily understand such a reversal. 

However, Myra was not there; and with a 
heavy sense of unreasonable disappointment, 
Jim Airth chucked his ticket to a waiting 
porter, passed through the little station, and 


WHERE IS LADY INGLEBY P - 191 


fotmd a smart turn-out, with tandem ponies, 
waiting outside. 

The groom at the leader’s head touched his 
hat. 

‘‘For Shenstone Park, sir?” 

‘‘Yes,” said Jim Airth, and climbed 
in. 

The groom touched his hat again. ‘‘Her 
ladyship said, sir, that perhaps you might 
like to drive the ponies yotmself, sir.” 

“No, thank you,” said Jim Airth, shortly. 
“I never drive other people’s ponies.” 

The groom’s comprehending grin was im- 
mediately suppressed. He touched his hat 
again; gathered up the reins, mounted the 
driver’s seat, flicked the leader, and the 
perfectly matched ponies swung at once into 
a fast trot. 

Jim Airth, a connoisseur in horse-flesh, eyed 
them with approval. They flew along the 
narrow Surrey lanes, between masses of wild 
roses and clematis. The villagers were work- 
ing in the hayflelds, shouting gaily to one 
another as they tossed the hay. It was a 


192 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


matchless June day, in a perfect English 
summer. 

Jim Airth’s disappointment at Myra's non- 
appearance, was lifting rapidly in the enjoy- 
ment of the drive. After all it was best to 
adhere to plans once made; and every step of 
these jolly little tapping hoofs was bringing 
him nearer to the Lodge. Perhaps she would 
be at the window. (He had particularly told 
her not to be!) 

“These ponies have been well handled," 
he remarked approvingly to the groom, as 
they flew round a bend. 

“Yes, sir," said the groom, with the in- 
evitable movement towards his hat, whip 
and hand going up together. “Her lady- 
ship always drives them herself, sir. Fine 
whip, her ladyship, sir." 

This item of information surprised Jim 
Airth. Judging by Lord Ingleby's age and 
appearance, he had expected to find Lady 
Ingleby a sedate and stately matron of sixty. 
It was somewhat surprising to hear of her 
as a fine whip. 


•• WHERE IS LADY INGLEBY? 


193 


However, he had no time to weigh the 
matter further. Passing an ivy-clad church 
on the village green, they swung through 
massive iron gates, of very fine design, and 
entered the stately avenue of Shenstone 
Park. To the left, in a group of trees, stood 
a pretty little gabled house. 

“What house is that?“ asked Jim Airth, 
quickly. 

“The Lodge, sir.’’ 

“Who lives there?” 

“Mrs. O’Mara, sir.” 

“Has Mrs. O’Mara retiuned?” 

“I don’t know, sir. She was up at the 
house with her ladyship this morning.” 

“Then she has returned,” said Jim Airth. 

The groom looked perplexed, but made no 
comment, 

Jim Airth turned in his seat, and looked 
back at the Lodge. It was a far smaller 
house than he had expected. This fact did not 
seem to depress him. He smiled to himself, 
as at some thought which gave him amuse- 
ment and pleasure. While he still looked 

13 


194 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


back, a side door opened; a neatly dressed 
woman in black, apparently a superior lady’s- 
maid, appeared on the doorstep, shook out a 
white table-cloth, and re-entered the house. 

They flew on up the avenue, Jim Airth 
noting every tree with appreciation and 
pleasure. The flne old house came into view, 
and a moment later they drew up at the 
entrance. 

"'Good driving,” remarked Jim Airth 
approvingly, as he tipped the little groom. 
Then he turned, to find the great doors 
already standing wide, and a stately butler, 
with immense black eyebrows, waiting to 
receive him. 

“Will you come to her ladyship’s sitting- 
room, sir?” said the butler, and led the way. 

Jim Airth entered a charmingly appointed 
room, and looked around. 

It was empty. 

“Kindly wait here, sir, while I acquaint 
her ladyship with your arrival,” said the 
pompous person with the eyebrows, and went 
out noiselessly, closing the door behind him. 


WHERE IS LADY INGLEBY? 195 

Left alone, Jim Airth commenced taking 
rapid note of the room, hoping to gain there- 
from some ideas as to the tastes and character 
of its possessor. But almost immediately his 
attention was arrested by a life-size portrait of 
Lord Ingleby, hanging above the mantelpiece. 

Jim Airth walked over to the hearthrug, and 
stood long, looking with silent intentness at 
the picture. 

‘‘Excellent,” he said to himself, at last. 
“Extraordinarily clever. That chap shall 
paint Myra, if I can lay hands on him. What 
a jolly little dog! And what devotion 1 Mutual 
and absorbing. I suppose that is Peter. 
Queer to think that I should have been the last 
to hear him calling Peter. I wonder whether 
Lady Ingleby liked Peter. If not, I doubt 
if she would have had much of a look-in. If 
anyone went to the waU it certainly was n’t 
Peter.” 

He was still absorbed in the picture, when 
the butler returned with a long message, 
solemnly delivered. 

“Her ladyship is out in the groimds, sir. 


196 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


As it is so warm in the house, sir, her ladyship 
requests that you come to her in the grounds. 
If you will allow me, sir, I will show you the 
way.” 

Jim Airth restrained an inclination to say: 
”Buck up!” and followed the butler along a 
corridor, down a wide staircase to a lower 
hall. They stepped out on to a terrace run- 
ning the full length of the house. Below 
it, an old-fashioned garden, with box borders, 
bright flower beds, a fountain in the centre. 
Beyond this a smooth lawn, sloping down to a 
beautiful lake, which sparkled and gleamed 
in the afternoon sunshine. On this lawn, 
well to the right, half-way between the house 
and the water, stood a group of beeches. 
Beneath their spreading boughs, in the cool 
inviting shadow, were some garden chairs. 
Jim Airth could just discern, in one of t^'ese, 
the white gown of a woman, holding a scarlet 
parasol. 

The butler indicated this clump of trees. 

‘'Her ladyship said, sir, that she would 
await you under the beeches.” 


” WHERE IS LADY INGLEBY? 


197 


He returned to the house, and Jim Airth 
was left to make his way alone to Lady 
Ingleby, guided by the gleam among the trees 
of her brilliant parasol. Even at that mo- 
ment it gave him pleasure to find Lady 
Ingleby's taste in sunshades, resembling 
Myra’s. 

He stood for a minute on the terrace, taking 
in the matchless beauty of the place. Then 
his face grew sad and stem. ''What a home 
to leave,” he said; "and to leave it, never hj 
return!” 

He still wore a look of sadness as he de- 
scended the steps leading to the flower garden, 
made his way along the narrow gravel paths; 
then stepped on to the soft turf of the lawn, 
and walked towards the clump of beeches. 

Jim Airth — tall and soldierly, broad- 
shouldered and erect — ^might have made an 
excellent impression upon Lady Ingleby, had 
she watched his coming. But she kept her 
parasol between herself and her approaching 
guest. 

In fact he drew quite near; near enough to 


198 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


distinguish the ripples cf soft lace about her 
feet, the long graceftil sweep of her gown; and 
still she seemed unconscious of his close 
proximity. 

^ He passed beneath the beeches and stood 
before her. And, even then, the parasol 
concealed her face. 

But Jim Airth was never at a loss, when sure 
of his ground. *'Lady Ingleby,'' he said, 
with grave formality; was told to 

Then the parasol was flimg aside, and he 
found himself looking down into the lovely 
laughing eyes of Myra. 

To see Jim Airth’s face change from its 
look of formal gravity to one of rapturous 
delight, was to Myra well worth the long effort 
of sitting immovable. He flung himself down 
before her with boyish abandon, and clasped 
both herself and her chair in his long arms. 

'' Oh, you darling! he said, bending his face 
over hers, while his blue eyes danced with 
delight. '‘Oh, Myra, what centuries since 
yesterday! How I have longed for you. I 
almost hoped you would after all have come 


WHERE IS LADY INGLEBY? " 199 


to the station. How I have grudged wasting 
all this time in coming to call on old Lady 
Ingleby. Myra, has it seemed long to you? 
Do you realise, my dear girl, that it can't go 
on any longer; that we cannot possibly live 
through another twenty-four hours of separa- 
tion? But oh, you Tease! There was I, ramping 
with impatience at every wasted moment ; 
and here were you, sitting tmder this tree, 
hiding your face and pretending to be Lady 
Ingleby! The astonished and astonishing old 
party in the eyebrows, certainly pointed you 
out as Lady Ingleby when he started me off 
on my pilgrimage. I say, how lovely you 
look! What billowy softness! It wouldn’t 
do for cliff -climbing; but its A.i. for sitting 
on lawns. ... I can’t help it! I must!” ; ,l 
”Jim,” said Myra, laughing and pushing 
him away ; ^ ‘ what has come to you, you dearest 
old boy? You will really ha’^^e to behave! 
We are not in the honeysuckle arbour. 'The 
astonishing old party in the eyebrows’ is most 
likely observing us from a window, and will 
have good cause to look astonished, if he sees 


200 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


you ^carrying on’ in such a manner. Jim> 
how nice you look in your town clothes. I 
always like a grey frock-coat. Stand up, and 
let me see. . . . Oh, look at the green of the 
turf on those immaculate knees! What a 
pity. Did you don all this finery for me?” 

''Of course not, silly!” said Jim Airth, 
rubbing his knees vigorously. "When I haul 
you up cliffs, I wear old Norfolk coats; and 
when I duck you in the sea, I wear flannels. I 
considered this the correct attire in which to 
pay a formal call on Lady Ingleby; and now, 
before she has had a chance of being duly 
impressed by it, I have spoilt my knees hope- 
lessly, worshipping at your shrine! Where is 
Lady Ingleby? Why does n’t she keep her 
appointments? ” 

"Jim,” said Myra, looking up at him with • 
eyes full of unspeakable love, yet dancing 
with excitement and delight; ^'Jim, do you 
admire this place? ” 

"This place?” cried Jim, steppi:i)g back a 
pace, so as to command a good view of the 
lake and woods beyond. "It is absolutely 



I 



4 




I 


k 


* 






I 


« 



V 





# 





/ 











4 . 






4 


WHERE IS LADY INGLEBY? ” 


201 


perfect. We have nothing like this in Scot- 
\land. You can’t beat for all round beauty a 
,/real old mellow lived-in English country 
seat ; especially when you get a twenty acre 
*; lake, with islands and swans, all complete. 
And I suppose the woods beyond, as far as one 
can see, belong to the Inglebys — or rather, to 
Lady Ingleby. What a pity there is no 
son.” 

”Jim,” said Myra, ''I have so looked for- 
ward to showing you my home.” 

He stepped close to her at once. ‘‘Then 
show it to me, dear,” he said. “I would 
rather be alone with you in your own little 
home — I saw it, as we drove up — than wait- 
ing about, in this vast expanse of beauty, for 
Lady Ingleby.” 

“Jim,” said Myra, “do you remember a 
little tune I often hummed down in Cornwall; 
and, when you asked me what it was, I said 
you should hear the words some day?” 

Jim looked puzzled. “Really dear — ^you 
hummed so many little tunes ” 

“Oh, I know,” said Myra; “and I have not 


202 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


much ear. But this was very special. I 
want to sing it to you now. Listen ! 

And looking up at him, her soft eyes full 
of love, Myra sang, with slight alterations of 
her own, the last verse of the old Scotch 
ballad, “Huntingtower.'* 

Blair in Athol ’s mine, Jamie, 

Fair Dtmkeld is mine, laddie; 

Saint Johnstoan’s bower. 

And Huntingtower, 

And all that 's mine, is thine, laddie.” 

''Very pretty, said Jim, "but you Ve 
mixed it, my dear. Jamie bestowed all his 
possessions on the lassie. You sang it the 
wrong way round.” 

"No, no,” cried Myra, eagerly. "There 
is no wrong way round. Providing they both 
love, it does not really matter which gives. 
The one who happens to possess, bestows. If 
you were a cowboy, Jim, and you loved a 
woman with lands and houses, in taking her, 
you would take all that was hers.” 

"I guess I’d take her out to my ranch 


WHERE IS LADY INGLEBY? 


203 


and teach her to milk cows/’ laughed Jim 
Airth. Then fuming about under the tree 
and looking in all directions: '‘But seriously, 
Myra, where is Lady Ingleby? She should 
keep her appointments. We cannot waste 
our whole afternoon waiting here. I want 
my girl; and I want her in her own little home, 
alone. Cannot we find Lady Ingleb}?”? '’ 

Then Myra rose, radiant, and came and 
stood before him. The sunbeams shone 
through the beech leaves and danced in her 
grey eyes. She had never looked more 
perfect in her sweet loveliness. The man 
took it all in, and the glory of possession 
lighted his handsome face. 

She came and stood before him, laying her 
hands upon his breast. He wrapped his 
arms lightly about her. He saw she had 
something to say; and he waited. 

“Jim,” said Myra, ''Jim, dearest. Therein 
just one name I want to bear, more than any 
other. There is just one thing I long to be. 
Then I shall be content. I want to have the 
right t® be called 'Mrs. Jim Airth.’ I want, 


204 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


more than all else beside, to be your wife. 
But — ^until I am that ; and may it be very soon ! 
until you make me ^Mrs. Jim Airth’ — dearest 
^ — I — am Lady Ingleby.’’ 


CHAPTER XVI 


UNDER THE BEECHES AT SHENSTONE 

YIM AIRTH’S arms fell slowly to his sides. 
^ He still looked into those happy, loving 
eyes, but the joy in his own died out, leaving 
them merely cold blue steel. His face slowly 
whitened, hardened, froze into lines of silent 
misery. Then he moved back a step, and 
Myra’s hands fell from him. 

^'You — 'Lady Ingleby’?” he said. 

Myra gazed at him, in unspeakable dismay. 

"Jim!” she cried, "Jim, dearest! Why 
should you mind it so much?” 

She moved forward, and tried to take his 
hand. 

' ' Don’t touch me ! ” he said , sharply. Then : 

Myra? You! Lord Ingleby’s widow?” 

The furious misery of his voice stung Myrao 

205 


206 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


Why should he resent the noble name she bore, 
the high rank which was hers? Even if it 
placed her socially far above him, had she 
not just expressed her readiness — ^her longing 
— to resign all, for him? Had not her love 
already placed him on the topmost pinnacle 
of her regard? Was it generous, was it 
worthy of Jim Airth to take her disclosure 
thus? 

She moved towards the chairs, with gentle 
dignity . 

'‘Let us sit down, Jim, and talk it over,’’ 
she said, quietly. "I do not think you need 
find it so overwhelming a matter as you seem 
to imagine. Let me tell you all about it; 
or rather, suppose you ask me any questions 
you like.” 

Jim Airth sat blindly down upon the chair 
farthest from her, put his elbows on his knees, 
and sank his face into his hands. 

Without any comment, Myra rose; moved 
her chair close enough to enable her to lay 
her hand upon his arm, should she wish to 
do so; sat down again, and waited in silence. 


VUdER the beeches at SHENSTONE 207 


Jim Airth had but one question to ask. 
He asked it, without lifting his head. 

^*Who is Mrs. O’Mara?” 

''She is the widow of Sergeant O' Mara who 
fell at Targai. We both lost our husbands in 
that disaster, Jim. She had been for many 
years my maid-attendant. When she married 
the sergeant, a fine soldier whom Michael 
held in high esteem, I wished still to keep her 
near me. Michael had given me the Lodge 
to do with as I pleased. I put them into it. 
She lives there still. Oh, Jim dearest, try to 
realise that I have not said one word to you 
which was not completely truthful! Let me 
explain how I came to be in Cornwall imder 
her name instead of my own. If I might put 
my hand in yours, Jim, I could tell you more 
easily. . . . No? Very well; never mind. 

"After I received the telegram last Novem- 
ber telling me of my husband's death, I had a 
very bad nervous breakdown. I do not 
think it was caused so much by my loss, as by 
a prolonged mental strain, which had preceded 
it. Just as I had moved to town and was 


208 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


getting better, full details arrived, and I had 
to be told that it had been an accident. You 
know all about the questidn as to whether 
I should hear the name or not. You also 
know my decision. The worry of this threw 
me back. What you said in the arbour was 
perfectly true. I am a woman, Jim; often, 
a weak one; and I was very much alone. I 
decided rightly, in a supreme moment — 
possibly you may know who it was who 
graciously undertook to bring me the news 
from the War OfSce — but, afterwards, I 
began to wonder; I allowed myself to guess. 
Men from the front came home. My sur- 
misings circled ceaselessly around two — dear 
fellows, of whom I was really fond. At last 
I felt convinced I knew, by intangible yet 
unmistakable signs, which was he who had 
done it. I grew quite sure. And then — I 
hardly know how to tell you, Jim — of all 
impossible horrors! The man who had killed 
Michael wanted to marry me! — Oh, don’t 
groan, darling; you make me so unliappy) 
But I do not wonder you find it difficult to 


UNDER THE BEECHES AT SHENSTONE 209 


believe. He cared very much, poor boy; and 
I suppose he thought that, as I should remain 
in ignorance, the fact need not matter. It 
seems hard to understand; but a man in love 
sometimes loses all sense of proportion — at 
least so I once heard someone say; or words to 
that effect. I did not allow it ever to reach 
the point of an actual proposal; but I felt I 
must flee away. There were others — and 
it was terrible to me. I loved none of them; 
and I had made up my mind never to marry 
again tmless I found my ideal. Oh, Jim!*’ 

She laid her hand upon his knee. It might 
have been a falling leaf, for all the sign he 
gave. She left it there, and went on speaking. 

* ' People gossiped. Society papers contained 
constant trying paragraphs. Even my widow’s 
weeds were sketched and copied. My nerves 
grew worse. Life seemed unendurable. 

''At last I consulted a great specialist, who 
is also a trusted friend. He ordered me a 
rest-cure. Not to be shut up within four 
walls with my own worries, but to go right 
away alone: to leave my own identity, and all 


2 1 0 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


appertaining thereto, completely behind; to 
go to a place to which I had never before been, 
where I knew no one, and should not be 
known; to live in the open air; fare sim- 
ply; rise early, retire early; but, above 
all, as he quaintly said: ‘Leave Lady Ingleby 
behind/ 

“I followed his advice to the letter. He is 
not a man one can disobey. I did not like the 
idea of taking a fictitious name, so I decided 
to be ‘Mrs. O’Mara,’ and naturally entered 
her address in the visitors’ book, as well as her 
name. 

“Oh, that evening of arrival! ’ You were 
quite right, Jim. I felt just a happy child, 
entering a new world of beauty and delight — 
all holiday and rest. 

“And then — I saw you! And, oh my 
beloved, I think almost from the first moment 
my soul flew to you, as to its imquestioned 
mate! Yotir vitality became my source of 
vigour; your strength filled and upheld every- 
thing in me which had been weak and falter- 
ing. I owed you much, before we had really 


UNDER THE BEECHES AT S HEN STONE 21 1 

spoken. Afterwards, I oWed you life itself, 
and love, and all — ^ all, Jim!” 

Myra paused, silently controlling her emo- 
tion; then, bending forward, laid her lips upon 
the roughness of his hair. It might have been 
the stirring of the breeze, for all the sign he 
made. 

” When I found at first that you had come 
from the war, when I realised that you must 
have known Michael, I praised the doctor’s 
wisdom in making me drop my own name. 
Also the Murgatroyds would have known it 
immediately, and I should have had no peace. 
As it was. Miss Murgatroyd occasionally 
held forth in the sitting-room concerning 
‘poor dear Lady Ingleby,’ whom she gave us 
to understand she knew intimately. And 
then — oh, Jim! when I came to know my 
cosmopolitan cowboy; when he told me he 
hated titles and all that appertained to them; 
then indeed I blessed the moment when I 
had writ myself down plain ‘Mrs. O’Mara’; 
and I resolved not to tell him of my title until 
he loved me enough not to mind it, or wanted 


212 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


me enough, to change me at once from Lady 
Ingleby of Shenstone Park, into plain Mrs. 
JimAirth of — anywhere he chooses to take me! 

“Now you will imderstand why I felt I 
could not marry you validly in Cornwall; 
and I wanted — was it selfish? — I wanted the 
joy of revealing my own identity when I had 
you, at last, in my own beautiful home. Oh, 
my dear — ^my dear! Cannot our love stand 
the test of so light a thing as this?“ 

She ceased speaking and waited. 

She was sure of her victory; but it seemed 
strange, in dealing with so fine a nattme as that 
of the man she loved, that she should have had 
to fight so hard over what appeared to her a 
paltry matter. But she knew false pride 
often rose gigantic about the smallest thmgs; 
the very unworthiness of the cause seeming 
to add to the unreasonable growth of its 
dimensions. 

She was deeply hurt ; but she was a woman, 
and she loved him. She waited patiently to 
see his love for her arise victorious over 
unworthy pride. 


UNDER THE BEECHES AT SHENSTONE2\3 


At last Jim Airth stood up. 

''I cannot face it yet/’ he said, slowly. “I 
must be alone. I ought to have known from 
the very first that you were — are — Lady 
Ingleby. I am very sorry that you should 
have to suffer for that which is no fault of 
your own. I must — ^go — ^now. In twenty- 
four hours, I will come back to talk it over.” 

He turned, without another word; without 
a touch; without a look. He swung round on 
his heel, and walked away across the lawn. 

Myra’s dismayed eyes could scarcely follow 
him. 

He moimted the terrace; passed into 
house. A door closed. 

Jim Airth was gone! 


CHAPTER XVII 
‘surely you knew?’ 


I^YRA INGLEBY rose and wended her 
^ ^ way slowly towards the house. 

A stranger meeting her would probably 
have noticed nothing amiss with the tall 
graceful woman, whose pallor might well have 
been due to the unusual warmth of the day. 

But the heart within her was dying. 

Her joy had received a mortal wound. The 
man she adored, with a love which had placed 
him at the highest, was slowly slipping from 
his pedestal, and her hands were powerless 
to keep him there. 

A woman may drag her own pride in the 
dust, and survive the process; but when the 
man she loves falls, then indeed her heart dies 
within her. 


214 


SURELY YOU KNEW? 


215 


She had loved to call Jim Airth a cowboy. 
She knew him to be avowedly cosmopolitan. 
But was he also a slave to vulgar pride? Being 
plain Jim Airth himself, did he grudge noble 
birth and ancient lineage to those to whom 
they rightfully belonged? Professing to scorn 
titles, did he really set upon them so exagger- 
ated a value, that he would turn from the 
woman he was about to wed, merely because 
she owned a title, while he had none? 

Myra, entering the house, passed to her 
sitting-room. Green awnings shaded the 
windows. The fireplace was banked with 
ferns and lilies. Bowls of roses stood about; 
while here and there pots of growing freesias 
poured their delicate fragrance around. 

Myra crossed to the hearth-rug and stood 
gazing up at the picture of Lord Ingleby. 
The gentle refinement of the scholarly face 
seemed accentuated by the dim light. Lady 
Ingleby dwelt in memory upon the consistent 
cx)urtesy of the dead man's manner; his 
unfailing friendliness and equability to all; 
courteous to men of higher rank, considerate 


2 1 6 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


to those of lower; genial to rich and poor 
alike. 

Oh, Michael,” she whispered, “have I been 
unfaithful? Have I forgotten how good you 
were?” 

But still her heart died within her. The 
man who had stalked across the lawn, leaving 
her without a touch or look, held it in the 
hollow of his hand. 

A dog-cart clattered up to the portico. 
Men’s voices soimded in the hall. Tramping 
feet hurried along the corridor. Then Billy’s 
excited young voice cried, “ May we come in? ” 
followed by Ronnie’s deeper tones, “If we 
shall not be in the way?” The next moment 
she was grasping a hand of each. 

“You dear boys!” she said. “I have never 
been more glad to see you! Do sit down; or 
have you come to play tennis?” 

“We have come to see you, dear Queen,” 
said Billy. “We are staying at Overdene. 
The duchess had your letter. She told us the 
great news; also, that you were returning 
yesterday. So we came over to — ^to ” 


SURELY^ YOU KNEW? 


217 


‘‘To congratulate/’ said Ronald Ingram; 
and he said it heartily and bravely. 

“Thank you/’ said Myra, smiling at them, 
but her sweet voice was tremulous. These 
first congratulations, coming just now, were 
almost more than she could bear. Then, 
with characteristic simplicity and straight- 
forwardness, she told these old friends the 
truth. 

“You dear boys! It is quite sweet of you 
to come over; and an hotu* ago, you would have 
found me radiant. There cannot have been 
a happier woman in the whole world than I. 
But, you know, I met him, and we became 
engaged, while I was doing my very original 
rest-ctu*e, which consisted chiefly in being 
Mrs. O’Mara, to all intents and purposes, 
instead of myself. This afternoon he knows 
for the first time that I am Lady Ingleby of 
Shenstone. And, boys, the shock has been 
too much for him. He is such a splendid 
man; but a dear delightful cowboy sort of 
person. He has lived a great deal abroad, 
and been everything you can imagine that 


2 1 8 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


bestrides a horse and does brav^e things. He 
finished up at your horrid little war, and got 
fever at Targai. You must have known 
him. He calls it 'a muddle on the frontier,’ 
and now he is writing a book about it, and 
about other muddles, and how to avoid them. 
But he has a quite eccentric dislike to titles 
and big properties; so he has shied really 
badly at mine. He has gone off to ' face it out ’ 
alone. Hence you find me sad instead of gay.” 

Billy looked at Ronnie, telegraphing: ”Is 
it? It must be! Shall we tell her? ” 

Ronnie telegraphed back: ”It is! It can 
be no other. You tell her.” 

Lady Ingleby became aware of these cross- 
currents. 

”What is it, boys?” she said. 

”Dear Queen,” cried Billy, with hardly 
suppressed excitement; ”may we ask the 
cowboy person’s name?” 

”Jim Airth,” replied Lady Ingleby, a 
sudden rush of colour flooding her pale cheeks. 

”In that case,” said Billy, ”he is the chap 
we met tearing along to the railway station. 


SURELY YOU KNEW? 


219 


as if all the furies were loose at his heels. He 
looked neither to the right nor to the left, 
nor, for that matter, in front of him; and our 
dog-cart had to take to the path! So he did 
not see two old comrades, nor did he hear their 
hail. But he cannot possibly have been 
fleeing from your title, dear lady, and hardly 
from your property; seeing that his own title 
is about the oldest known in Scottish history; 
while mile after mile of moor and stream and 
forest belong to him. Surely you knew that 
the fellow who called himself *Jim Airth ’ when 
out ranching in the West, and still keeps it 
as his nom-de-plume, is — ^when at home — 
James, Earl of Airth and Monteith, and a 
few other names I have forgotten ; — ^the finest 
old title in Scotland!*' 


CHAPTER XVIII 


WHAT BILLY HAD TO TELL 

r^ID you bring your rackets, boys?’' 

^ Lady Ingleby had said, with fine self- 
control; adding, when they admitted rackets 
left in the hall, “Ah, I am glad y9u never can 
resist the chestnut court. It seems ages since 
I saw you two fight out a single. Do go on 
and begin. I will order tea out there in half 
an hour, and follow you.” 

Then she escaped to the terrace, flew across 
garden and lawn, and sought the shelter of the 
beeches. Arrived there, she sank into the 
chair in which Jim Airth had sat so immov- 
able, and covered her face with her trembling 
fingers. 

“ Oh, Jim, Jim! ” she sobbed. “ My darling, 
how grievously I wronged you! My king 
220 


WHAT BILLY HAD TO TELL 


221 


among men ! How I misjudged you ! Imput- 
ing to you thoughts of which you, in your 
noble large-heartedness, would scarcely know 
the meaning. Oh, my dear, forgive me! 
And oh, come to me through this darkness and 
explain what I have done wrong; explain 
what it is you have to face; tell me what 
has come between us. For indeed, if you 
leave me, I shall die.'* 

Myra now felt certain that the fault was 
hers; and she suffered less than when she had 
thought it his. Yet she was sorely perplexed. 
For, if the Earl of Airth and Monteith might 
write himself down “Jim Airth" in the Moor- 
head Inn visitors' book, and be blameless, 
why might not Lady Ingleby of Shenstone 
take an equally simple name, without commit- 
ting an unpardonable offence? 

Myra pondered, wept, and reasoned round 
in a circle, growing more and more bewildered 
and perplexed. 

But by-and-by she went indoors and tried to 
remove all traces of recent tears. She must 
not let her sorrow make her selfish. Ronald 


222 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


and Billy would be wanting tea, and expecting 
her to join them. 

Meanwhile the two friends, their rackets 
under their arms, had strolled through the 
shrubbery at the front of the house, to the 
beautiful tennis lawns, long renowned as being 
the most perfect in the neighbourhood. Many 
a tournament had there been fought out, in 
presence of a gay, crowd, lining the courts, 
beneath the shady chestnut trees. 

But on this day the place seemed sad and 
deserted. They played one set, in silence, 
hardly troubling to score; then walked to the 
net and stood close together, one on either side. 

“We must tell her,*’ said Ronald, examining 
his racket, minutely. 

“I suppose we must,” agreed Billy, reluc- 
tantly. ” We could not let her marry him.” 

“ Duffer! you don’t suppose he wotdd dream 
of marrying her? He will come back, and tell 
her himself to-morrow. We must tell her, 
to spare her that interview. She need never 
see him again.” 


fVHAT BILLY HAD TO TELL 


223 


‘‘I say, Ron! Did you see her go quite 
pink when she told us his name? And in spite 
of the trouble to-day, she looks half a dozen 
years younger than when she went away. 
You know she does, old man!” 

‘^Oh, that ’s the rest-cure,” explained Ron- 
nie, but without much conviction. “Rest- 
cures always have that effect. That ’s why 
women go in for them. Did you ever hear of a 
man doing a rest-cure? ” 

“Well, I Ve heard of you, at Overdene,” 
said Billy, maliciously. 

“Rot! You don’t call staying with the 
duchess a rest-cure? Good heavens, man! 
You get about the liveliest time of your life 
when her Grace of Meldrum imdertakes to 
nurse you. Did you hear about old Bilberry 
the parson, and the toucan?” 

“Yes, shut up. You ’ve told me that un- 
holy story twice already. I say, Ronnie! 
We are begging the question. Who ’s to tell 
her?” 

“You,” said Ronald decidedly. “ She cares 
for you like a mother, and will take it more 


224 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTQNE 


easily from you. Then I can step in, later 
on, with— er — manly comfort.^' 

‘'Confound you!’’ said Billy, highly in- 
dignant. “I’m not such a kid as you make 
out. But I ’ll tell you this: — If I thought it 
would be for her real happiness, and could be 
pulled through, I would tell her / did it; then 
find Airth to-morrow and tell him I had told 
her so.” 

“Ass!” said Ronnie, affectionately. “As if 
that could mend matters. Don’t you know 
the earl? He was against the hushing-up 
business from the first. He would simply 
punch your head for daring to lie to her, and 
go and tell her the exact truth himself. Besides, 
at this moment, he is thinking more of his side 
of the question, than of hers. We fellows 
have a way of doing that. If he had thought 
first of her, he would have stayed with her 
and seen her through, instead of rushing off 
like this, leaving her heart-broken and per- 
plexed.” 

“Confoimd him!” said Billy, earnestly. 

“I say, Billy! You know women.” It 


WHAT BILLY HAD TO TELL 


225 


was the first time Ronnie had admitted this. 
‘'Don’t you think — ^if a woman turned in 
horror from a man she had loved, she might — 
if he were tactfully on the spot — turn to a 
man who had long loved her, and of whom 
she had imdoubtedly been fond?” 

"My knowledge of women,” declaimed 
Billy, dramatically, "leads me to hope that 
she would fall into the arms of the man who 
loved her well enough to risk incurring her 
displeasure by bravely telling her himself that 
which she ought ” 

"Confound you!” whispered Ronnie, who 
had glanced past Billy. "Shut up! — The 
meshes of this net are better than the other, 
and the new patent sockets undoubtedly 
keep it ” 

"You patient people!” said Lady Ingleby’s 
voice, just behind Billy. "Don’t you badly 
need tea? ” 

"We were admiring the new net,” said 
Ronald Ingram, frowning at Billy, who with 
his back to Lady Ingleby, continued admiring 
the new net, helplessly speechless! 

IS 


226 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


There were brave attempts at merriment 
during tea. Ronald told all the latest Over- 
dene stories; then described the annual con- 
cert which had just taken place. 

‘‘ Mrs. Dalmain was there, and sang divinely. 
She sings her husband’s songs; he accompanies 
her. It is awfully fine to see the light on his 
blind face as he listens, while her glorious voice 
comes pouring forth. When the song is over, 
he gets up from the piano, gives her his arm, 
and apparently leads her off. Very few people 
realise that, as a matter of fact, she is guiding 
him. She gave, as an encore, a jolly little new 
thing of his — quite simple — ^but everybody 
wanted it twice over; an air like summer wind 
blowing through a pine wood, with an accom- 
paniment like a blackbird whistling; words 
something about 'On God’s fair earth, ’mid 
blossoms blue ’ — I forget the rest. Go 
ahead. Bill!” 

“ There is no room for sad despair. 

When heaven’s love is everywhere.” 

quoted Billy, who had an c^xcellent memory. 


WHAT BILLY HAD TO TELL 


227 


Myra rose, hastily. “I must go in,'" she 
said. ‘‘But play as long as you like.” 

Billy walked beside her towards the shrub- 
bery. ” May I come in and see you, presently, 
dear Queen? There is something I want to say.” 

“Come when you will. Billy-boy,” said 
Lady Ingleby, with a smile. “You will find 
me in my sitting-room.” 

And Billy looked furtively at Ronald, 
hoping he had not seen. Words and smile 
undoubtedly partook of the maternal! 

It was a very grave-faced young man who, 
half an hour later, appeared in Lady Ingleby’s 
sitting-room, closing the door carefully behind 
him. Lady Ingleby knew at once that he had 
come on some matter which, at all events to 
himself, appeared of paramount importance. 
Billy’s days of youthful escapades were over. 
This must be something more serious. 

She rose from her davenport and came to 
the sofa. “Sit down, Billy,” she said, indi- 
cating an armchair opposite — Lord Ingleby’s 
chair, and little Peter’s. Both had now 


.^28 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


left it empty. Billy filled it readily, lUi'’ 
conscious of its associations. 

“Rippin’ flowers,’’ remarked Billy, looking 
round the room. 

'‘Yes,” said Lady Ingleby. She devoutly 
hoped Billy was not going to propose. 

“Jolly room,” said Billy; “at least, I always 
think so.” 

“Yes,” said Lady Ingleby. “So do I.” 

Billy’s eyes, roaming anxiously around for 
fresh inspiration, lighted on the portrait over 
the mantelpiece. He started and paled . Then 
he knew his hour had come. There must 
be no more beating about the bush. 

Billy was a soldier, and a brave one. He 
had led a charge once, running up a hill ahead 
of his men, in face of a perfect hail of bullets. 
First came Billy; then the battalion. Not a 
man could keep within fifty yards of him. 
They always said afterwards that Billy came 
through that charge alive, because he sprinted 
so fast, that no bullets could touch him. He 
rushed at the subject now, with the same 
headlong courage. 


WHAT BILLY HAD TO TELL 


229 


"'Lady Ingleby,” he said, there is some- 
thing Ronnie and I both think you ought to 
know/’ 

''Is there, Billy?” said Myra. "Then 
suppose you tell it me.” 

"We have sworn not to tell,” continued 
Billy; "but I don’t care a damn — I mean a 
pin — ^for an oath, if your happiness is at 
stake.” 

"You must not break an oath, Billy, even 
for my sake,” said Myra, gently. 

"Well, you see — if you wished it, you were 
to be the one exception.” 

Suddenly Lady Ingleby understood. '■'Oh, 
Billy!” she said. "Does Ronald wish me to 
be told?” 

This gave Billy a pang. So Ronnie really 
coimted after all, and would walk in — over 
the broken hearts of Billy and another — ^in 
r61e of manly comforter. It was hard; but, 
loyally, Billy made answer. 

"Yes; Ronnie says it is only right; and I 
think so too. I ’ve come to do it, if you will 
let me.” 


230 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


Lady Ingleby sat, with clasped hands, 
considering. After all, what did it matter? 
What did anything matter, compared to the 
trouble with Jim? 

She looked up at the portrait; but Michael’s 
pictiured face, intent on little Peter, gave her 
no sign. 

If these boys wished to tell her, and get it 
off their minds, why should she not know? 
It would put a stop, once for all, to Ronnie’s 
tragic love-making. 

“Yes, Billy,” she said. “You may as well 
tell me.” 

The room was very still. A rosebud 
tapped twice against the window-pane. It 
might have been a warning finger. Neither 
noticed it. It tapped a third time. 

Billy cleared his throat, and swallowed, 
quickly. 

Then he spoke. 

“The man who made the blimder,” he said, 
“and fired the mine too soon; the man who 
killed Lord Ingleby, by mistake, was the chap 
you call ‘Jim Airth.’ ” 


CHAPTER XIX 


JIM AIRTH DECIDES 

f ADY INGLEBY awaited Jim Airth's 
^ arrival, in her sitting-room. 

As the hour drew near, she rang the bell. 

^‘Groatley,” she said, when the butler 
appeared, “the Earl of Airth, who was here 
yesterday, will call again, this afternoon. 
When his lordship comes, you can show him 
in here. I shall not be at home to any one 
else. You need not bring tea until I ring for 
it.” 

Then she sat down, quietly waiting. 

She had resumed the mourning, temporarily 
laid aside. The black gown, hanging about 
her in soft trailing folds, added to the graceful 
height of her slight figure. The white tokens 
of widowhood at neck and wrists gave to 


232 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


her unusual beauty a pathetic suggestion of 
wistful loneliness. Her face was very pale; a 
purple tint beneath the tired eyes betokened 
tears and sleeplessness. But the calm stead- 
fast look in those sweet eyes revealed a mind 
free of all doubt; a heart, completely at rest. 

She leaned back among the sofa cushions, 
her hands folded in her lap, and waited. 

Bees hummed in and out of the open 
windows. The scent of freesias filled the room, 
delicate, piercingly sweet, yet .not oppressive. 
To one man forever afterwards the scent of 
freesias recalled that afternoon; the exquisite 
sweetness of that lovely face; the trailing 
softness of her widow’s gown. 

Steps in the hall. 

The door opened. Groatley’s voice, pom- 
pously sonorous, broke into the waiting 
silence. 

''The Earl of Airth, m’ lady”; and Jim 
Airth walked in. 

As the door closed behind him, Myra rose. 

They stood, silently confronting one another 
beneath Lord Ingleby’s picture. 


JIM AIRTH DECIDES 


233 


It almost seemed as though the thoughtful 
scholarly face must turn from its absorbed 
contemplation of the little dog, to look down 
for a moment upon them. They presented 
a psychological problem — ^these brave hearts 
in torment — ^which would surely have proved 
interesting to the calm student of metaphysics. 

Silently they faced one another for the space 
of a dozen heart-beats. 

Then Myra, with a swift movement, went 
up to Jim Airth, put her arms about his neck, 
and laid her head upon his breast. 

“I know, my beloved,*' she said. “You 
need not give yourself the pain of trying to 
tell me.” 

“ How? ” A single syllable seemed the most 
Jim’s lips, for the moment, could manage. 

“Billy told me. He and Ronald Ingram 
came over yesterday afternoon, soon after 
you left. They had passed you, on your way 
to the station. They thought I ought to 
know. So Billy told me.” 

Jim Airth’s arms closed roimd her, holding 
her tightly. 


234 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


<<My — ^poor — girl!’’ he said, brokenly. 

‘‘They meant well, Jim. They are dear 
boys. They knew you would come back and 
tell me yourself ; and they wanted to spare us 
both that pain. I am glad they did it. You 
were quite right when you said it had to be 
faced alone. I could not have been ready for 
your return, if I had not heard the truth, and 
had time to face it alone. I am ready now, 
Jim.” 

Jim Airth laid his cheek against hei soft 
hair, with a groan. 

‘‘I have come to say good-bye, Myra. It 
is all that remains to be said.” 

‘ ‘ Good-bye ? ’ ’ Myra raised a face of terrified 
questioning. 

Jim Airth pressed it back to its hiding-place 
upon his breast. 

‘‘I am the man, Myra, whose hand you 
could never bring yourself to touch in friend- 
ship.” 

Myra lifted her head again. The look in 
her eyes was that of a woman prepared to 
fight for happiness and life. 


JIM AIRTH DECIDES 


235 


‘‘You are the man/’ she said, “whose little 
finger is dearer to me than the whole body of 
any one else has ever been. Do you suppose 
I will give you up, Jim, because of a thing 
which happened accidentally in the past, 
before you and I had ever met? Ah, how little 
you men understand a woman’s heart! Shall 
I tell you what I felt when Billy told me, 
after the first bewildering shock was over? 
First: sorrow for you, my dearest; a realisa- 
tion of how appalling the mental anguish 
must have been, at the time. Secondly: 
thankfulness — ^yes, intense overwhelming 
thankfulness — ^to know at last what had come 
between us; and to know it was this thing — 
this mere ghost out of the past — nothing 
tangible or real; no wrong of mine against 
you, or of yours against me; nothing which 
need divide us. “ 

Jim Airth slowly unlocked his arms, took her 
by the wrists, holding her hands against his 
breast. Then he looked into her eyes with a 
silent sadness, more forcible than speech. 

“My own poor girl,” he said, at length; 


236 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


'4t is impossible for me to marry Lord Ingle- 
by’s mdow/’ 

The strength of his will mastered hers; anct, 
just as in Horseshoe Cove her fears had 
yielded to his daimtless courage, so now 
Myra felt her confidence ebbing away before 
his stem resolve. Fearful of losing it alto- 
gether, she drew av/ay her hands, and turned 
to the sofa. 

"Oh, Jim,’’ she said, ‘‘sit down and let 
us alk it over.” 

She sank back among the cushions and 
drawing a bowl of roses hastily toward her, 
buried her face in them, fearing again to 
meet the settled sadness of his eyes. 

Jim Airth sat down — in the chair left 
vacant by Lord Ingleby and Peter. 

‘‘Listen, dear,” he said. ‘‘I need not ask 
you never to doubt my love. That would 
be absurd from me to you. I love you as 
I did not know it was possible for a man to 
love a woman. I love you in such a way that 
every fibre of my being will hunger for you 
night and day — ^through all the years to come. 


JIM AIRTH DECIDES 


231 


But — ^well, it would always have come hard 
to me to stand in another man’s shoes, and 
take what had been his. I did not feel this 
when I thought I was following Sergeant 
O’Mara, because I knew he must always have 
been in all things so utterly apart from you. 
I could, imder different circumstances, have 
brought myself to follow Ingleby, because I 
realise that he never awakened in you such 
love as is yours for me. His possessions would 
not have weighted me, because it so happens 
I have lands and houses of my own, where we 
could have lived. But, to stand in a dead 
man’s shoes, when he is dead through an act 
of mine; to take to myself another man’s 
widow, when she would still, but for a reckless 
movement of my own right hand, have been 
a wif.^7-Myra, I could not do it! Even with 
our great love, it would not mean happiness. 
Think of it — think! As we stood together in 
the sight of God, while the Church, in solemn 
voice, required and charged us both, as we 
should answer at the dreadful day of judgment 
when the secrets of all hearts should be 


238 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 

disclosed, that if either of us knew any im- 
pediment why we might not be lawfully 
joined together in matrimony, we should then 
confess it — I should cry: ‘Her husband died 
by my hand!* and leave the chiu*ch, with the 
brand of Cain, and the infamy of David, upon 
me.” 

Myra lifted frightened eyes; met his, be- 
seechingly; then bent again over the roses. 

“Or, even if I passed through that ordeal, 
standing mute in the solemn silence, what of 
the moment when the Church bade me take 
your right hand in my right hand — Myra, 
my right hand? ** 

She rose, came swiftly over, and knelt 
before him. She took his hand, and covered 
it with tears and kisses. She held it, sobbing, 
to her heart. 

“Dearest,” she said, “I will never ask you 
to do, for my sake, anything you feel im- 
possible or wrong. But, oh, in this, I know 
you are mistaken. I cannot argue or explain. 
I cannot put my reasons into words. But 
I know our living, longing, love ought to come 


JIM AIRTH DECIDES 


239 


before the ha,ppenings of a dead past. Michael 
lost his life through an accident. That the 
accident was caused by a mistake on your part, 
is fearfully hard for you. But there is no 
moral wrong in it. You might as well blame 
the company whose boat took him abroad; 
or the government which decided on the 
expedition; or the War Office people, who 
accepted him when he volunteered. I am 
sure I don’t know what David did; I thought 
he was a quite excellent person. But I do 
know about Cain; and I am perfectly certain 
that the brand of Cain could never rest on 
anyone, because of an xmpremeditated acci- 
dent. Oh, Jim! Cannot you look at it 
reasonably? ” 

looked at it reasonably — ^after a while — 
until yesterday,” said Jim Airth. ”At first, 
of course, all was blank, ghastly despair. Oh, 
Myra, let me tell you ! I have never been able 
to tell anyone. Go back to the couch; I 
can’t let you kneel here. Sit down over there, 
and let me tell you.” 

Lady Ingleby rose at once and retiuned to 


240 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


her seat; then sat listening — her yearning 
eyes fixed upon his bowed head. He had 
momentarily forgotten what the events of that 
night had cost her; so also had she. Her only 
thought was of his pain. 

Jim Airth began to speak, in low, hurried 
tones; haimted with a horror of reminiscence. 

can see it now. The little stuffy tent; 
the hidden light. I was already sickening for 
fever, working with a temperature of 102. I 
had n’t slept for two nights, and my head felt 
as if it were two large eyes, and those eyes, 
both bruises. I knew I ought to knock under 
and give the job to another man; but Ingleby 
and I had worked it all out together, and I 
was dead keen on it. It was a place where 
no big guns could go; but our little arrange- 
ment which you could carry in one hand, 
would do better and siurer work, than half a 
dozen big guns. 

'‘There was a long wait after Ingleby and 
the other fellow — ^it was Ingram — started. 
Cathcart, left behind with me, was in and out 
of the tent; but he couldn’t stay still two 


JIM AIRTH DECIDES 


2A\ 


minutes; he was afraid of missing the rush. 
So I was alone when the signal came. We 
found afterwards that Ingram had crawled 
out of the tunnel, and gone to take a message 
to the nearest ambush. Ingleby was left 
alone. He signalled: ‘Placed,’ as agreed. 
I took it to be ‘Fire!’ and acted instantly. 
The moment I had done it, I realised my 
mistake. But that same instant came the 
roar, and the hot silent night was tiimed to 
pandemonium, I dashed out of the tent, 
shouting for Ingleby. Good God! It was 
like hell! The yelling swearing Tommies, 
making up for the long enforced silence and 
inaction; the hordes of dark devilish faces, 
leering in their fury, and jeering at our dis- 
comfiture; for inside their outer wall, was a 
rampart of double the strength, and we were 
no nearer taking Targai. 

“Afterwards — if I had n’t owned up at once 
to my mistake, nobody would have known 
how the thing had happened. Even then, 
they tried to persuade me the wrong signal 
had been given; but I knew better. And on 


Z42 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


the spot, it was impossible to find — ^well, any 
actual proofs of what had happened. The 
gap had been filled at once with crowds of 
yelling jostling Tommies, mad to get into 
the town. Jove, how those chaps fight when 
they get the chance. V^Then all was over, 
several were missing who were not among the 
dead. They must have forced themselves in 
where they cotJd not get back, and been taken 
prisoners. God alone knows their fate, poor 
beggars. Yet I envied them; for when the 
row was over, my hell began. 

“Myra, I would have given my whole life 
to have had that minute over again. And it 
was maddening to know that the business 
might have been done all right with any old 
fuse. Only we were so keen over our new 
ideas for signalling, and our portable electric 
apparatus. Oh, good Lord! I knew despair, 
those days and nights! I was down with 
fever, and they took away my sword, and 
guns, and razors. I couldn’t imagine why. 
Even despair doesn’t take me that way. 
But if a chap could have come into my 


JIM AIRTH DECIDES 


243 


tent and said: ‘You didn’t kill Ingleby 
after all. He ’s all right and alive!’ I would 
have given my life gladly for that moment’s 
relief. But no present anguish can imdo 
a past mistake. 

“Well, I pulled through the fever; life had 
to be lived, and I suppose I ’m not the sort of 
chap to take a morbid view. When I found 
the thing was to be kept quiet; when the few 
who knew the ins-and-outs stood by me 
like the good fellows they were, saying it 
might have happened to any of them, and 
as soon as I got fit again I should see the only 
rotten thing would be to let it spoil my future; 
I made up my mind to put it clean away, and 
live it down. You know they say, out in the 
great western country: ‘God Almighty hates 
a quitter.’ It is one of the stimulating tenets 
\of their fine practical theology. I had fought 
through other hard times. I determined to 
fight through this. I succeeded so well, that 
it even seemed natural to go on with the 
work Ingleby and I had been doing together^ 
and carry it through. And when notes of 


244 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


his were needed, I came to his own home 
without a qualm, to ask his widow — the 
woman I, by my mistake, had widowed — ^ 
for permission to have and to use them. 

“I came — ^my mind full of the rich joy of 
life and love, with scarcely room for a passing 
pang of regret, as I entered the house without 
a master, the home without a head, knowing 
I was about to meet the woman I had widowed. 
Truly * The mills of God grind slowly, but they 
grind exceeding small.’ I had thrown off too 
easily what should have been a lifelong burden 
of regret. 

''In the woman I had widowed I found — 
the woman I was about to wed! Good God! 
Was there ever so hard a retribution?” 

"Jim,” said Myra, gently, "is there not 
another side to the pictiu-e? Does it not strike 
you that it should have seemed beautiful to 
find that God in His wonderful providence 
had put you in a position to be able to take 
care of Michael’s widow, left so helpless and 
alone; that in saving her life by the strength 
of your right hand, you had atoned for the 


JIM AIRTH DECIDES 


245 


death that hand had unwittingly dealt; that, 
though the past cannot be undone, it can 
sometimes be wiped out by the present? 
Oh, Jim! Cannot you see it thus, and keep 
and hold the right to take care of me forever? 
My beloved I Let us never, from this moment, 
part. I will come away with you at once. 
We can get a special licence, and be married 
immediately. We will let Shenstone, and let 
the house in Park Lane, and live abroad, any- 
where you will, Jim; only together — together! 
Take me away to-day. Maggie O’Mara can 
attend me, until we are married. But I 
can’t face life without you. Jim — I can’t! 
God knows, I can’t!” 

Jim Airth looked up, a gleam of hope in his 
sad eyes. 

Then he looked away, that her appealing 
loveliness might not too much tempt him, 
while making bis decision. He lifted his eyes; 
and, alas! they fell on the portrait over the 
mantelpiece. 

He shivered. 

can never marry Lord Ingleby’s widow,” 


246 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


he said. ‘‘Myra, how can you wish it? The 
thing would haunt us! It would be evil — 
unnatural. Night and day, it would be there. 
It would come between us. Some day you 
would reproach me 

“Ah, hush!“ cried Myra, sharply. “Not 
that! I am suffering enough. At least spare 
me that!” Then, putting aside once more 
her own pain: “Would it not be happi- 
ness to you, Jim?” she asked, with wistful 
gentleness. 

“Happiness?” cried Jim Airth, violently. 
“It would be hell; ’ 

Lady Ingleby rose, her face as white as 
the large arum lily in the corner behind 
her. 

“Then that settles it,” she said; “and, do 
you know, I think we had better not speak of 
it any more. I am going to ring for tea. 
And, if you will excuse me for n few moments, 
while they are bringing it, I will search among 
my husband’s papers, and try to find those 
you require for your book.” 

She passed swiftly out. Through the closed 


JIM AIRTH DECIDES 


247 


I 

j toor, the man she left alone heard her giving 
I jltiiet orders in the hall. 

I' He crossed the room, in two great strides, to 
I follow her. But at the door he paused ; turned, 
and came slowly back. 

He stood on the hearthrug, with bent head; 
j rigid, motionless. 

Suddenly he lifted his eyes to Lord Ingleby’s 
portrait. 

‘‘Curse you!” he said through clenched 
teeth, and beat his fists upon the marble 
mantelpiece. “Ciu*se your explosives! And 
curse your inventions! And curse you for 
taking her first!” Then he dropped into a 
chair, and buried his face in his hands. “Oh, 
God forgive me!” he whispered, brokenly. 
“ But there is a limit to what a man can bear.” 

He scarcely noticed the entrance of the foot- 
man who brought tea. But when a lighter 
step paused at the door, he lifted a haggard 
face, expecting to see Myra. 

A quiet woman entered, simply dressed in 
black merino. Her white linen collar and 
cuffs gave her the look of a hospital nurse* 


248 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


Her dark hair, neatly parted, was smoothl}; 
coiled around her head. She came in, defer- 
entially; yet with a quiet dignity of manner. 

have come to pour your tea, my lord,”^ 
she said. ''Lady Ingleby is not well, and’ 
fears she must remain in her room. She 
asks me to give you these papers.” 

Then the Earl of Airth and Monteith rose 
to his feet, and held out his hand. 

"I think you must be Mrs. O’Mara,” he 
said. "I am glad to meet you, and it is kind 
of you to give me tea. I have heard of you 
before; and I believe I saw you yesterday, on 
the steps of your pretty house, as I drove up 
the avenue. Will you allow me to tell you 
how often, when we stood shoulder to shoulder 
in times of difficulty and danger, I had reason 
to respect and admire the brave comrade I 
knew as Sergeant O’Mara? ” 

Before quitting Shenstone, Jim Airth sat at 
Myra’s davenport and wrote a letter, leaving it 
with Mrs. O’ Mara to place in Lady Ingleby’s 
hands as soon as he had gone. 


JIM AIRTH DECIDES 


249 


'' I do not wonder you felt unable to see me 
again. Forgive me for all the grief I have 
caused, and am causing, you. I shall go 
abroad as soon as may be; but am obliged to 
remain in town imtil I have completed work 
which I am under contract with my publishers 
to finish. It will take a month, at most. 

''If you want me, Myra — I mean if you 
need me — I could come at any moment. A 
wire to my Club would always find me. 

"May I know how you are? 

"Wholly yours, 

"Jim Airth." 

To this Lady Ingleby replied on the follow- 
ing day. 

"Dear Jim, 

"I shall always want you; but I could 
never send unless the coming would mean 
happiness for you. 

"I know you decided as you felt right. 

" I am quite well. 

"God bless you always. 

"Myra.'’ 


CHAPTER XX 


A BETTER POINT OF VIEW 

IN the days which followed, Jim Airth suffered 
^ all the pangs which come to a man who 
has made a decision prompted by pride rather 
than by conviction. 

It had always seemed to him essential that 
a man sho\ M appear in all things without 
shame or blame in the eyes of the woman he 
loved. Therefore, to be obliged suddenly to 
admit that a fatal blimder of his own had 
been the cause, even in the past, of irreparable 
loss and sorrow to her, had been an unacknow- 
ledged but intolerable humiliation. That she 
should have anything to overlook or to forgive 
in accepting himself and his love, was a con- 
dition of things to which he could not bring 
himself to submit; and her sweet generosity 

250 


A BETTER POINT OF VIEW 


25 ! 


and devotion, rather increased than soothed 
his sense of wounded pride. 

He had been superficially honest in the 
reasons he had given to Myra regarding the 
impossibility of marriage between them. He 
had said all the things which he knew others 
might be expected to say; he had mercilessly 
expressed what would have been his own 
judgment had he been asked to pronounce 
an opinion concerning any other man and 
woman in like circumstances. As he voiced 
them they had sotmded tragically plausible 
and stoically just. He knew he was inflicting 
almost unbearable pain upon himself and upon 
the woman whose whole love was his; but that 
pain seemed necessary to the tragic demands 
of the entire ghastly situation. 

Only after he had finally left her and was on 
his way back to town, did Jim Airth realise 
that the pain he had thus inflicted upon her 
and upon himself, had been a solace to his 
own woimded pride. His had been the 
mistake, and it re-established him in his own 
self-respect and sense of superiority, that his 


152 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


shouid be the decision, so hard to make — ^ 
so unfalteringly made — ^bringing down upon 
his own head a punishment out of all pro- 
portion to the fault committed. 

But, now that the strain and tension were 
over, his natural honesty of mind reasserted 
, itself, forcing him to admit that his own selfish 
pride had been at the bottom of his high- 
flown tragedy. 

Myra’s simple loving view of the case had 
been the right one; yet, thrusting it from him, 
he had ruthlessly plunged himself and her into 
a hopeless abyss of needless suffering. 

By degrees he slowly realised that in so 
doing he had deliberately inflicted a more cruel 
wrong upon the woman he loved, than that 
which he had ur wittingly done her in the past. 

Remorse and regret gnawed at his heart, 
added to an almost imbearable hunger for 
. Myra. Yet he could not bring himself to 
retiun to her with this second and still more 
humiliating confession of failure. 

His one hope was that Myra would find 
their separation impossible to endure, and 


A BETTER POINT OF VIEW 


253 


would send for him. But the days went by, 
and Myra made no sign. She had said she 
would never send for him unless assured 
that coming to her would mean happiness 
to him. To this decision she qmetly ad- 
hered. 

In a strongly virile man, love towards a 
woman is, in its essential qualities, naturally 
selfish. Its keynote is, '^I need’’; its domi- 
nant, ^'I want”; its full major chord, ''I must 
possess.” 

On the other hand, the woman’s love for the 
man is essentially imselfish. Its keynote is, 
'‘He needs”; its dominant, "I am his, to do 
with as he pleases”; its full major chord, 
"Let me give all.” In the Book of Canticles, 
one of the greatest love-poems ever written, 
we find this truth exemplified; we see the 
woman’s heart learning its lesson, in a fine 
crescendo of self-surrender. In the first stanza 
she says: "My BelovM is mine, and I am 
his”; in the second, "I am my Beloved’s and 
he is mine.” But in the third, all else is 
merged in the instinctive joy of giving: "I 


254 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


am my BelovM’s, and his desire is towards 
me. • 

This is the natiiral attitude of the sexes, 
designed by an all-wise Creator * but designed 
for a condition of ideal perfection. No 
perfect law could be framed for imperfection. 
Therefore, if the working out prove often a 
failure, the fault lies in the imperfection of 
the workers, not in the perfection of the law. 
In those rare cases where the love is ideal, the 
man’s '‘I take” and the woman’s ‘‘I give” 
blend into an ideal union, each completing 
and modifying the other. But where sin of 
any kind comes in, a false note has been 
struck in the divine harmony, and the grand 
chord of mutual love fails to ring true. 

Into their perfect love, Jim Airth had in- 
troduced the discord of false pride. It had 
become the basis of his line of action, and their 
symphony of life, so beautiful at first in its 
sweet theme of mutual love and trust, now lost 
its harmony, and jarred into a hopeless jangle. 
The very fact that she faithfully adhered to 
her trustful unselfishness, acquiescing without 


A BETTER POINT OF VIEW 255 ^ 


a murmur in his decision, made readjust- 
ment the more impossible. Thus the weeks 
went by. 

Jim At'fth worked feverishly at his proofs; 
drinking and smoking, when he should have 
been eating and sleeping; going off suddenly, 
after two or three days of continuous sitting 
at his desk, on desperate bouts of violent 
exercise. 

He walked down to Shenstone by nighty 
sat, in bitterness of spirit under the beeches, 
surrounded by empty wicker chairs; — a silent 
ghostly garden-party! — ^watched the dawn 
break over the lake; prowled around the house 
where Lady Ingleby lay sleeping, and narrowly 
escaped arrest at the hands of Lady Ingleby’s 
night-watchman; leaving for London by the 
first train in the morning, more sick at heart 
than when he started. 

Another time he suddenly turned in at 
Paddington, took the train down to Cornwall, 
and astonished the Miss Murgatroyds by 
stalking ■ into the coffee-room, the gaimt 
ghost of his old gay self. Afterwards he 


256 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


went off to Horseshoe Cove, climbed the 
cliff and spent the night on the -edge, 
dwelling in morbid misery on the wonderful 
memories with which that place was sur- 
rounded. 

It was then that fresh hope, and the com- 
plete acceptance of a better point of view, 
came to Jim Airth. 

As he sat on the ledge, hugging his lonely 
misery, he suddenly became strangely con- 
scious of Myra’s presence. It was as if the 
sweet wistful grey eyes, were turned upon 
him in the darkness; the tender mouth smiled 
lovingly, while the voice he knew so well asked 
in soft merriment, as under the beeches at 
Shenstone: ^^What has come to you, you 
dearest old boy? ” 

He had just put his hand into his pocket 
and drawn out his spirit-flask. He held it for 
a moment, while he listened, spellboimd, to 
that whisper; then flung it away into the 
darkness, far down to the sea below. Davy 
Jones may have it,” he said, and laughed aloud ; 
"'who e'er he be!" It was the first time Jim 


A BETTER POINT OF VIEW 


257 


Airth had laughed since that afternoon be- 
neath the Shenstone beeches: 

Then, with the sense of Myra’s presence 
still so near him, he lay with his back to the 
cliff, his face to the moonlit sea. It seemed 
to him as if again he drew her, shaking and 
trembling but imresisting, into his arms, hold- 
ing her there in safety until her trembling 
ceased, and she slept the untroubled sleep of a 
happy child. 

All the best and noblest in Jim Airth awoke 
at that hallowed memory of faithful strength 
on his part, and trustful peace on hers,. 

'*My God,” he said, what a nightmare 
it has been! And what a fool, I, to think 
anything could come between us. Has she 
not been utterly mine since that sacred night 
spent here? And I have left her to loneliness 
and grief? ... I will arise and go to my 
beloved. No past, no shame, no pride of 
mine, shall come between us any more.” 

He raised himself on his elbow and looked 
over the edge. The moonlight shone on 
rippling water lapping the foot of the cliff. 


258 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


He cotild see his watch by its bright lighto 
Midnight! He must wait until three, for the 
tide to go down. He leaned back again, his 
arms folded across his chest; but Myra was 
still safely within them. 

Two minutes later, Jim Airth slept soundly. 

The dawn awoke him. He scrambled down 
to the shore, and once again swam up the 
golden path toward the rising sim. 

As he got back into his clothes, it seemed 
to^him that every vestige of that black night- 
mare had been left behind in the gay tossing 
waters. 

On his way to the railway station, he passed 
a farm. The farmer's wife had been up since 
simrise, churning. She gladly gave him a 
simple breakfast of home-made bread, with 
butter fresh from the churn. 

He caught the six o’clock express for town; 
tubbed, shaved, and lunched, at his Club. 

At a quarter to three he was just coming 
down the steps into Piccadilly, very con- 
sciously ** clothed and in his right mind,” debat- 
ing which train he could take for Shenstone if 


A BETTER POINT OF VIEW 


259 


— ^as in duty bound — ^he looked in at his pub- 
lishers’ first; when a telegraph boy dashed 
up the steps into the Club, and the next 
moment the hall-porter hastened after him 
with a telegram. 

Jim Airth read it ; took one look at his watch ; 
then jumped headlong into a passing taxicab. 

‘‘Charing Cross!” he shouted to the 
chauffeur. “And a sovereign if you do it in 
five minutes.” 

As the flag tinged down, and the taxi 
glided swiftly forward into the whirl of traffic, 
Jim Airth unfolded the telegram and read it 
again. 

It had been handed in at Shenstone at 2.15. 

Come to me at once, 

Myra. 

A shout of exultation arose within him. 


CHAPTER XXI 


MICHAEL VERITAS 

/^N the morning of that day, while Jim 
Airth, braced with a new resolve and a 
fresh outlook on life, was speeding up from 
Cornwall, Lady Ingleby sat beneath the 
scarlet chestnuts, watching Ronald and BUly 
play tennis. 

They had entered for a tournament, and dis- 
covered that they required constant practice 
such as, apparently, could only be obtained 
at Shenstone. In reality they came over 
so frequently in honest-hearted trouble and 
anxiety over their friend, of whose unexpected 
sorrow they chanced to be the sole confidants. 
Lady Ingleby refused herself to all other 
visitors. In the trying uncertainty of these 
few weeks while Jim Airth was still in England^ 
she dreaded questions or comments. To 

260 


MICHAEL VERITAS 


261 


Jane Dalmain she had written the whole truth. 
The Dahnains were at Worcester, attending 
a musical festival in that noblest of English 
cathedrals; but they expected soon to return 
to Overdene, when Jane had promised to come 
to her. 

Meanwhile Ronald and Billy tiurned up 
often, doing their valiant best to be cheerful; 
but Myra's fragile look, and large pathetic eyes, 
alarmed and horrified them. Obviously things 
had gone more hopelessly wrong than they 
had anticipated. They had known at once 
that Airth would not marry Lady Ingleby; 
but it had never occurred to them that Lady 
Ingleb;'^ would still wish to marry Airth. 
Ronald stoutly denied that this was the case; 
but Billy affirmed it, though refusing to give 
reasons. 

Ronald had never succeeded in extorting 
from Billy one word of what had taken place 
when he had told Lady Ingleby that Jim 
Airth was the man. 

''If you wanted to know how she took it, 
you should have told her yourself," said 


262 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


Billy. ''And it will be a saving of useless 
trouble, Ron, if you never ask me again.’’ 

Thus the days went by; and, though she 
always seemed gently pleased to see them 
both, no possible opening had been given 
to Ronald for assuming the r61e of manly 
comforter. 

"I shall give it up,” said Ronnie at last, in 
bitterness of spirit; ''I tell you, I shall give 
it up; and marry the duchess! ” 

''Don’t be profane,” counselled Billy. ''It 
would be more to the point to find Airth, and 
explain to him, in carefully chosen language, 
that letting Lady Ingleby die of a broken 
heart will not atone for blowing up her hus- 
band. I always knew our news would make 
no difference, from the moment I saw her go 
quite pink when she told us his name. She 
never went pink over Ingleby, you bet! I 
did n’t know they could do it, after twenty.” 

"Much you know, then!” ejaculated Ron- 
nie, scornfully. "I’ve seen the duchess go 
pink.” 

"Scarlet, you mean,” amended Billy. "So 


MICHAEL VERITAS 


263 


have I, old chap; but that ’s another pair o’ 
boots, 'as you very well know.’ ’ 

"Oh, don’t be vulgar,” sighed Ronnie, 
wearily. "Let ’s cut the whole thing and go 
to town. Henley begins to-morrow.” 

But next day they turned up at Shenstone, 
earlier than usual. 

And that morning. Lady Ingleby was feeling 
strangely restful and at peace; not with any 
expectations of future happiness ; but resigned 
to the inevitable; and less apart from Jim 
Airth. She had fallen asleep the night before 
beset by haunting memories of Cornwall and 
of their climb up the cliff. At midnight she 
had awakened with a start, fancying herself on 
the ledge, and feeling that she was falling. 
But instantly Jim Airth’s arms seemed to en- 
fold her; she felt herself drawn into safety; 
then that exquisite sense of strength and rest 
was hers once more. 

So vivid had been the dream, that its effect 
remained with her when she rose. Thus she 
sat watching the tennis with a little smile of 
content on her sweet face. 


264 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


“She is beginning to forget,” thought 
Ronnie, exultant. ' ‘ My Vantage ! ” he shouted 
significantly to Billy, over the net. 

“Deuce!” responded Billy, smashing down 
the ball with unnecessary violence. 

“No!” cried Ronnie. '“Outside, my boy I 
Game and a ‘love’ set to me!” 

“Stay to lunch, boys,” said Lady Ingleby, 
as the gong sounded; and they all three went 
gaily into the house. 

As they passed through the hall afterwards, 
their motor stood at the door; so they bade 
her good-bye, and turned to find their rackets* 

At that moment they heard the sharp ting 
of a bicycle beU. A boy had ridden up with 
a telegram. Groatley, waiting to see them 
off, took it; picked up a silver salver from the 
hall table, and followed Lady Ingleby to her 
sitting-room. 

There seemed so sudden a silence in the 
house, that Ronald and Billy with one accord 
stood listening. 

“Twenty minutes to two,” said Billy, 
glancing at the clock. “Spirits are walking.’^ 


MICHAEL VERITAS 


265 


The next moment a cry rang out from Lady 
Ingleby’s sitting-room — a cry of such mingled 
bewilderment, wonder, and relief, that they 
looked at one another in amazement. Then 
without waiting to question or consider, they 
hastened to her. 

Lady Ingleby was standing in the middle 
of the room, an open telegram in her hand. 

** Jim,’' she was saying; ''Oh, Jim!” 

Her face was so transrigured by thankfulness 
and joy, that neither Ronald nor Billy could 
frame a question. They merely gazed at 
her. 

"Oh, Billy! Oh, Ronald!” she said, "He 
did n't do it / Oh think what this will mean 
to Jim Airth. Stop the boy! Quick! Bring 
me a telegram form. I must send for him at 
once. . . . Oh, Jim, Jim! ... He said he 
would give his life for the relief of the moment 
when some one should step into the tent and 
tell him he had not done it; and now I shall 
be that 'some one’! . . . Oh, how do you 
spell 'Piccadilly’? . . . Please call Groatley. 
If we lose no time, he may catch the three 


266 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 




o’clock express. . . . Groatley, tell the boy 
to take this telegram and have it sent off 
immediately. Give him half-a-crown, and say 
he may keep the change. . . . Now boys. 
• . . Shut the door!” 

The whirlwind of excitement was succeeded 
by sudden stillness. Lady Ingleby sank upon 
the sofa, burying her face for a moment in the 
cushions. 

In the silence they heard the telegraph 
boy disappearing rapidly into the distance, 
ringing his bell a very unnecessary number 
of times. When it could be heard no longer, 
Lady Ingleby lifted her head. 

Michael is alive,” she said. 

'‘Great Scot!” exclaimed Ronnie, and took 
a step forward. 

Billy made no sound, but he turned very 
white; backed to the door, and leaned against 
it for support. 

“Think what it means to Jim Airth!” 
said Lady Ingleby. “Think of the despair 
and misery through which he passed ; and, after 
all, he had not done it.” 


MICHAEL VERITAS 


m 


*^May we see?’’ asked Ronald eagerly, 
holding out his hand for the telegram. 

Billy licked his dry lips, but no sound would 
come. 

‘‘Read it,” said Myra. 

Ronald took the telegram and read it aloud„ 
To Lady Inglehy, Shenstone Park, Shenstone^ 
England. 

Reported death a mistake. Taken prisoner 
Targai. Escaped. Arrived Cairo. Large 
bribes and rewards to pay. Cable five hundred 
pounds .0 Cook's immediately. 

''Michael Veritas." 

“Great Scot!” said Ronnie again. 

Billy said nothing; but his eyes never left 
Lady Ingleby’s radiant face. 

“Think what it will mean to Jim Airth,**’ 
she repeated. 

“Er — yes,” said Ronnie. “It considerably 
changes the situation — ^for him. What does 
‘Veritas’ mean?” 

“That,” replied Lady Ingleby “is our 
private code, Michael’s and mine. My mother 
once wired to me in Michael’s name, and to 


m THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


Michael in mine — dear mamma occasionally 
does eccentric things — and it made compli- 
cations. Michael was very much annoyed; 
and after that we took to signing our telegrams 
'Veritas/ which means: 'This is really from 
me. 

"Just think!" said Ronnie. "He, a prisoner; 
and we, all marching away! But I remember 
now, we always suspected prisoners had 
been taken at Targai. And positive proofs of 
Lord Ingleby’s death were difficult to — ^well, 
don't you know — ^to find. I mean — ^there 
could n't be a fimeral. We had to conclude 
it, because we believed hiiii to have been 
right inside the tunnel. He must have got 
clear after all, before Airth sent the fiash, and 
getting in with the first rush, been imable to 
return. Of course he has reached Cairo with 
no money and no means of getting home. 
And the chaps who helped him, will stick to 
him like leeches till they get their pay. What 
shall you do about cabling? " 

Lady Ingleby seemed to collect her thoughts 
with difficulty. 


MICHAEL VERITAS 


269 


“Of course the money must be sent — and 
sent at once,” she said. “Oh, Ronnie, could 
you go up to town about it, for me? I would 
give you a cheque, and a note to my bankers; 
they will know how to cable it through. 
Could you, Ronnie? Michael must not be 
kept waiting; yet I must stay here to tell Jim. 
It never struck me that I might have gone 
up to town myself; and now I have wired to 
Jim to come down here. Oh, my dear Ronnie, 
could you? ” 

“ Of course I could,” said Ronald, cheerfully. 
“The motor is at the door. I can catch the 
two-thirty, if you write the note at once. 
,No need for a cheque. Just write a few lines 
authorising your bankers to send out the 
money; I will see them personally; explain the 
whole thing, and hurry them up. The money 
shall be in Cairo to-night, if possible.” 

Lady Inglebv went to her davenport. 

No soimd broke the stillness save the rapid 
scratching of her pen. 

Then Billy spoke. “ I will come with you 
he said, hoarsely. 


270 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


‘‘Why do that?’’ objected Ronald. “You 
may as well go on in the motor to Overdene, 
and tell them there.’’ 

“I am going to town,’’ said Billy, decidedly. 
Then he walked over to where the telegram 
still lay on the table. “May I copy this?’’ 
he asked of Lady Ingleby. 

“Do,’’ she said, without looking roimd. 

“And Ronnie —you take the original to 
show them at the bank. Ah, no! I must 
keep that for Jim. Here is paper. Make 
two copies, Billy.’’ 

Billy had already copied the message mto 
his pocket-book. With shaking fingers he 
copied it again, handing the sheet to Ronald, 
without looking at him. 

The note written. Lady Ingleby rose. 

“Thank you, Ronald,’’ she said. “Thank 
you, more than I can say. I think you will 
catch the train. And good-bye, Billy/* 

But Billy was already in the motor. 


CHAPTER XXII 

LORD INGLEBY’s WIFE 

'^HE journey down from town had been as 
* satisfactorily rapid as even Jim Airth 
could desire. He had caught the train at 
Charing Cross by five seconds. 

The hour's run passed quickly in glowing 
anticipation of that which was being brought 
nearer by every turn of the wheels. 

Myra's telegram was drawn from his pocket- 
book many times. Each word seemed fraught 
with tender meaning. Come to me at once'* 
It was so exactly Myra’s simple direct method 
of expression. Most people would have said, 
*'Come here," or ''Come to Shenstone," or 
merely "Come." "Come to me" seemed a 
tender, though unconscious, response to his 
resolution of the night before: " I will arise and 
go to my belovM." 


272 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


Now that the parting was nearly over, he 
realised how terrible had been the blank of 
three weeks spent apart from M 3 n:a. Her 
sweet personality was so knit into his life, 
that he needed her — not at any particular 
time, or in any particular way — ^but always; 
as the air he breathed; or as the light, which 
made the day. 

And she? He drew a well-worn letter from 
his pocket-book — the only letter he had ever 
had from Myra. 

shall always want you,*’ it said; ‘‘but I 
could never send, unless the coming would 
mean happiness for you.” 

Yet she had sent. Then she had happiness 
in store for him. Had she instinctively 
realised his change of mind? Or had she 
gauged his desperate htmger by her own, and 
understood that the satisfying of that, must 
mean happiness, whatever else of sorrow might 
lie in the backgroimd? 

But there should be no backgroimd of 
anything but perfect jo>, when Myra was 
wife. Would he not have the turning 


LORD INGLEBY*S WIFE 


273 


of the fair leaves of her book of life? Each 
page should unfold fresh happiness, hold 
new surprises as to what life and love 
could mean. He would know how to guard 
her from the faintest shadow of disillusion. 
Even now it was his right to keep her from 
that. How much, after all, should he tell 
her of the heart-searchings of these wretched 
weeks? Last night he had meant to tell her 
ever3rthing; he had meant to say: ‘H have 
sinned against heaven — the heaven of our 
love — and before thee; and am no more 
worthy . . But was it not essential to a 
woman’s happiness to believe the man she 
loved, to be in all ways, worthy? Out of his 
pocket came again the well-worn letter. 
know you decided as you felt right,” wrote 
Myra. Why perplex her with explanations? 
Let the dead past bury its dead. No need 
to cloud, even momentarily, the joy with which 
they could now go forward into a new 
life. And what a life! Wedded life with 
Myra 

”Shenstone Junction!” shouted a porter 


274 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


and Jim Airth was across the platform before 
the train had stopped. 

The tandem ponies waited outside the sta- 
tion, and this time Jim Airth gathered up the 
reins with a gay smile, flicking the leader, 
lightly. Before, he had said: ''I never drive 
other people's ponies," in response to '^Her 
ladyship's" message; but now — "All that's 
mine, is thine, laddie." 

He whistled "Himting-tower," as he drove 
between the hayflelds. Sprays of over-hang- 
ing traveller's-joy brushed his shoulder in the 
narrow lanes. It was good to be alive on 
such a day. It was good not to be leaving 
England, in England’s most perfect weather. 

0 . . Should he take her home to Scotland 
for their honeymoon, or down to Cornwall? 

What a jolly little church! 

Evidently Myra never slacked pace for a 
gate. How the ponies dashed th^^ugh, and 
into the avenue! 

Poor Mrs. O' Mara! It had been difficult 
to be civil to her, when she had appeared in- 
stead of Myra to give him tea. 


, LORD INGLEBTS WIFE 275 

i Of course Scotland would be jolly, with so 
j much to show her; but Cornwall meant more, 

, in its associations. Yes; he would arrange 
I for the honeymoon in Cornwall; be married in 
I the morning, up in town; no fuss; then go 
straight down to the old Moorhead Inn. And 
after dinner, they would sit in the honeysuckle 
; arboiu, and 

Groatley showed him into Myra’s sitting- 
room. 

She was not there. 

He walked over to the mantelpiece. It 
seemed years since that evening when, in a 
sudden fury against Fate, he had crashed his 
fists upon its marble edge. He raised his eyes 
to Lord Ingleby’s portrait. Poor old chap! 
He looked so content, and so pleased with 
himself, and his little dog. But he must have 
always appeared more like Myra’s father tha^ 
her — ^than anything else. 

On the mantelpiece lay a telegram. After 
the manner of leisurely coimtry post-offices, 
the full address was written on the envelope. 
It caught Jim Airth’s eye, and hardly con- 


276 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


scions of doing so, he took it up and read it. 
**Lady Ingleby, Shenstone Park, England P 
He laid it down. ''England?'' he wondered, 
idly. "Who can have been wiring to her 
from abroad?" 

Then he turned. He had not heard her 
enter; but she was standing behind him. 

"Myra!" he cried, and caught her to his 
heart. 

The rapture and relief of that moment were 
unspeakable. No words seemed possible. 
He could only strain her to him, silently, with 
all his strength, and realise that she was 
safely there at last. 

Myra had lifted her arms, and laid them 
lightly about his neck, hiding her face upon 
his breast. . . . He never knew exactly when 
he began to realise a subtle change about the 
quality of her embrace; the woman's pas- 
sionate tenderness seemed missing; it rather 
resembled the trustful clinging of a little child. 
An uneasy foreboding, for which he could not 
account, assailed Jim Airth. 

"Euss me, Myra!" he said, peremptorily; 


LORD INGLEBY*S WIFE 


277 


and she, lifting her sweet face to his, kissed 
him at once. But it was the pure loving kiss 
of a little child. 

Then she withdrew herself from his embrace; 
and, standing back, he looked at her, per- 
plexed. The light upon her face seemed 
hardly earthly. 

“Oh, Jim,” she said, “God's ways are won- 
derful! I have such news for you, my friend. 
I thank God, it came before you had gone 
beyond recall. And I, who had been the 
one, imwittingly, to add so terribly to the 
weight of the life-long cross you had to bear, 
am privileged to be the one to lift it quite 
away. Jim — you did not do it!'' 

Jim Airth gazed at her in troubled amaze- 
ment. Into his mind, involuntarily, came the 
awesome Scotch word “fey.” 

“I did not do what, dear?” he asked, 
gently, as if he were speaking to a little child 
whom he was anxious not to frighten. 

“You did not kill Michael.” 

“What makes you think I did not kill 
Michael, dear?” questioned Jim Airth, gently. 


278 THE MISTRESS OF SHEN STONE 


‘'Because/’ said Myra, with clasped hands, 
“ Michael is alive.” 

“Dearest heart,” said Jim Airth, tenderly, 
“you are not well. These awful three weeks, 
and what went before, have been too much for 
you. The strain has upset you. I was a 
brute to go off and leave you. But you 
knew I did what I thought right at the time; 
did n’t you, Myra? Only now I see the whole 
thing quite differently. Your view was the 
true one. We ought to have acted upon it, 
and been married at once.” 

“Oh, Jim,” said Myra, “thank God we 
did n’t! It would have been so terrible now. 
It must have been a case of ‘Even there shall 
Thy hand lead me, and Thy right hand shall 
hold me.’ In our unconscious ignorance, we 
might have gone away together, not knowing 
Michael was alive.” 

Beads of perspiration stood on Jim Airth’s 
forehead. 

“ My darling, you are ill,” he said, in a voice 
of agonised anxiety. “I am afraid you are 
very ill. Do sit down quietly on the couch, 


LORD INGLEBTS WIFE 


279 


and let me ring. I must speak to the O’Mara 
woman, or somebody. Why did n’t the fools 
let me know? Have you been ill all these 
weeks?” 

Myra let him place her on the couch; 
smiling up at him reassuringly, as he stood 
before her. 

''You must not ring the bell, Jim,” she said. 
" Maggie is at the Lodge; and Groatley wquld 
be so astonished. I am quite well.” 

He looked around, in man-like helplessness; 
yet feeling something must be done. A long 
ivory fan, of exquisite workmanship, lay on a 
table near. He caught it up, and handed it 
to her. She took it; and to please him, 
opened it, fanning herself gently as she talked. 

"I am not ill, Jim; really dear, I am not. 
I am only strangely happy and thankful. It 
seems too wonderful for our poor earthly hearts 
to imderstand. And I am a little frightened 
about the future — ^but you will help me to 
face that, I know. And I am rather worried 
about little things I have done wrong. It 
seems foolish — ^but as soon as I realised 


280 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


Michael was coming home, I became conscious ' 
of hosts of sins of omission, and I scarcely 
know where to begin to set them right. And : 
the worst of all is — ^Jim! we have lost little! 
Peter’s grave! No one seems able to locate 
it. It is so trying of the gardeners; and so ' 
wrong of me; because of course I ought to | 
have planted it with flowers. And Michael ; 
would have expected a little marble slab, by i 
now. But I, stupidly, was too ill to see to the i 
funeral; and now Anson declares they put i 
him in the plantation, and George swears it i 
was in the shrubbery. I have been consulting ' 
Groatley who always has ideas, and expresses | 
them so well, and he says: 'Choose a suitable 
spot, m’ lady; order a handsome tomb; plant 
it with choice flowers; and who ’s to be the 
wiser, till the resurrection?’ Groatley is 
always resourceful; but of course I never 
deceive Michael. Fancy little Peter rising 
from the shrubbery, when Michael had 
mourned for years over a marble tomb on the 
lawn! But it really is a great worry. They 
must all begin digging, and keep on imtil they 


LORD INGLEBY*S WIFE 


28] 


find something definite. It will be good for 
the shrubbery and the plantation, like the silly 
old man in the parable — no, I mean fable — 
who pretended he had hidden a treasure. Oh, 
Jim, don’t look so distressed. I ought not 
to pour out all these trivial things to you; 
but since I have known Michael is coming 
back, my mind seems to have become foolish 
and trivial again. Michael always has that 
effect upon me; because — ^though he himself 
is so great and clever — ^he really thinks trivial 
and unimportant things are a woman’s voca- 
tion in life. But oh, Jim — ^Jim Airth — ^with 
you I am always lifted straight to the big 
things; and our big thing to-day is this: — that 
you never killed Michael. Do you remember 
telling me how, as you lay in your tent recover^ 
ing from the fever, if some one cotild have come 
in and told you Michael was alive and well, 
and that you had not killed him after all, you 
would have given your life for the relief of that 
moment? Well, I am that ‘some one,’ and 
this is the ‘moment’ ; and when first I had the 
telegram I could think of nothing — absolutely 


282 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSI ONE 


nothing, Jim — ^but what it would be to 
you/* 

“What telegram? ** gasped Jim Airth. “ In 
heaven*s name, Myra, what do you mean?** 

“ Michaebs telegram. It lies on the mantel- 
piece. Read it, Jim.** 

Jim Airth turned, took up the telegram and 
drew it from the envelope with steady fingers. 
He still thought Myra was raving. 

He read it through, slowly. The wording 
was unmistakable; but he read it through 
again. As he did so he slightly turned, so 
that his back was toward the couch. 

The blow was so stupendous. He could 
only realise one thing, for the moment: — 
that the woman who watched him read it, 
must not as yet see his face. 

She spoke. 

“Is it not almost impossible to believe, 
Jim? Ronald and Billy were limching here, 
when it came. Billy seemed stunned ; but Ron- 
nie was delighted. He said he had always 
believed the first men to rush in had been 
captured, and that no actual proofs of 


LORD INGLEBY^S WIFE 


283 


Michaers death had ever been found. They 
' never explained to me before, that there 
■ had been no funeral. I suppose they thought 
it would seem more horrible. But I 
never take much account of bodies. If it 
were n’t for the burden of having a weird 
‘ little urn about, and wondering what to 
do with it, I should approve of cremation. 
I sometimes felt I ought to make a pilgrimage 
to see the grave. I knew Michael would have 
wished it. He sets much store by graves — 
all the Inglebys lie in family vaults. That 
makes it worse about Peter. Ronnie went up 
to town at once to telegraph out the money. 
Billy went with him. Do you think five 
hundred is enough? Jim? — ^Jim! Are you 
not thankful? Do say something, Jim.” 

Jim Airth put back the telegram upon the 
mantelpiece. His big hand shook. 

‘'What is ‘Veritas’?” he asked, without 
looking round. 

‘‘That is our private code, Jim; Michael’s 
and mine. My mother once wired to me in 
Michael’s name, and to him in mine — ^poor 


284 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


mamma often does eccentric things, to get 
her own way — ^and it made complications. 
Michael was very much annoyed. So we 
settled always to sign important telegrams 

'Veritas,’ which means: 'This is really from 
* »» 

me. 

"Then — your husband — is coming home 
to you?” said Jim Airth, slowly. 

"Yes, Jim,” the sweet voice faltered, for 
the first time, and grew tremulous. " Michael 
is coming home.” 

Then Jim Airth turned round, and faced her 
squarely. Myra had never seen anything so 
terrible as his face. 

"You are mine,” he said; "not his.” 

Myra looked up at him, in dumb sorrowful 
appeal. She closed the ivory fan, clasping her 
hands upon it. The unquestioning finality of 
her patient silence, goaded Jim Airth to mad- 
ness, and let loose the torrent of his fierce 
wild protest against this inevitable — this 
imrelenting, fate. 

"You are mine,” he said, "not his. Your 
love is mine! Your body is mine! Your 


LORD INGLEBTS WIFE 


285 


whole life is mine! I will not leave you to 
another man. Ah, I know I said we could 
not marry 1 I know I said I should go abroad. 
But you would have remained faithful to me; 
and I, to you. We might have been apart; 
we might have been lonely ; we might have 
been at different ends of the earth; but — ^we 
should have been each other’s. I could have 
left you to loneliness; but, by God, I will not 
leave you to another!” 

Myra rose, moved forward a few steps and 
stood, leaning her arm upon the mantelpiece 
and looking down upon the bank of ferns and 
lilies. 

”Hush, Jim,” she said, gently. ”You for- 
get to whom you are speaking.” 

” I am speaking,” cried Jim Airth, in furious 
desperation, 'Ho the woman I have won for 
my own; and who is mine, and none other’s. 
If it had not been for my pride and my folly, 
we should have been married by now — 
married, Myra — ^and far away. I left you, 
I know; but — ^by heaven, I may as well tell 
you all now — ^it was pride — damnable false 


286 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


pride — that drove me away. I always meant 
to come back. I was waiting for you to send; 
but anyhow I should have come back. Would 
to God I had done as you implored me to do! 
By now we should have been together — out of 
reach of this cursed telegram, — and far away ! ” 

Myra slowly lifted her eyes and looked at 
him. He, blinded by pain and passion, failed 
to mark the look, or he might have taken 
warning. As it was, he rushed on, headlong. 

Myra, very white, with eyelids lowered, 
leaned against the mantelpiece; slowly furling 
and unfurling the ivory fan. 

“But, darling,’' urged Jim Airth, “it is not 
yet too late. Oh, Myra, I have loved you 
so! Our love has been so wonderful. Have 
I not taught you what love is? The poor 
cold travesty you knew before— /to was not 
love! Oh, Myra! you will come away with 
me, my own belovdd? You won’t put me 
through the hell of leaving you to another 
man? Myra, look at me! Say you will 
come.” 

Then Lady Ingleby slowly closed the fan, 


LORD INGLEBTS WIFE 


28 ? 


grasping it firmly in her right, hand. She 
threw back her head, and looked Jim Airth 
full in the eyes. 

“So this is your love,” she said. “This is 
what it means? Then I thank God I have 
hitherto only known the ' cold travesty,^ 
which at least has kept me pure, and held me 
high. What? Would you drag me down to 
the level of the woman you have scorned for a 
dozen years? And, dragging me down, would 
you also trail, with me, in the mire, the noble 
name of the man whom you have ventured 
/to call friend? My husband may not have 
^ given me much of those things a woman 
: desires. But he has trusted me with his 
name, and with his honour; he has left me, 

; mistress of his home. When he comes back 
he will find me what he himself made me — 
i mistress of Shenstone; he will find me where 
he left me, awaiting his return. You are no 
longer speaking to a widow. Lord Airth; nor 
, to a woman left desolate. You are speaking 
to Lord Ingleby's wife, and you may as well 
learn how Lord Ingleby’s wife guards Lord 


ZSS THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTOhE 


j Ingleby’s name, and defends her own honour, 
I and his.’’ She lifted her hand swiftly and 
struck him, with the ivory fan, twice across 
the cheek. ' ‘ Traitor ! ’ ’ she said, ' ' and coward ! 
Leave this house, and never set foot in it again ! ” 
Jim Airth staggered back, his face livid — ■ 
ashen, his hand involimtarily raised to ward 
off a third blow. Then the furious blood 
siirged back. Two crimson streaks marked 
his cheek. He sprang forward; with a swift 
movement caught the fan from Lady Ingleby’s 
hands, and whirled it above his head. His 
eyes blazed into hers. For a moment she 
thought he was going to strike her. She 
neither flinched nor moved; only the faintest 
smile curved the comers of her mouth into 
a scornful question. 

Then Jim Airth gripped' the fan in both 
hands ; with a twist of his strong fingers snapped 
it in half, the halves into quarters, and again, 
with another wrench, cmshed those into a 
hundred fragments — ^flung them at her feet; 
and, tinning on his heel, left the room, and 
left the house. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


WHAT BILLY KNEW 



ONALD and Billy had spoken but little, 


as they sped to the railway station, 
earlier on that afternoon. 

** Rummy go,*' volunteered Ronald, launch- 
ing the tentative comment into the somewhat 
oppressive silence. 

Billy made no rejoinder. 

‘‘Why did you insist on coming with me?’'*' 
asked Ronald. 

“I ’m not coming with you,” replied Billy 
laconicall}^ 

“Where then, Billy? Why so tragic? Are 
you going to leap from London Bridge? Don’t 
do it Billy-boy! You never had a chance. 
You were merely a nice kid. I ’m the chap 


290 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


who might be tragic; and see — I ’m going to 
the bank to despatch the wherewithal for 
bringing the old boy back. Take example by 
my fortitude, Billy.” 

Billy's explosion, when it came, was so 
violent, so choice, and so unlike Billy, that 
Ronald relapsed into wondering silence. 

But once in the train, locked into an empty 
first-class smoker, Billy turned a white face to 
his friend. 

” Ronnie,” he said, ‘‘I am going straight to 
Sir Deryck Brand. He is the only man I 
know, with a head on his shoulders.” 

” Thank you,” said Ronnie. ”I suppose I 
dandle mine on my knee. But why this 
urgent need of a man with his head so uniquely 
placed?” 

** Because,” said Billy, ”that telegram is a 
lie.” 

** Nonsense, Billy! The wdsh is father to 
the thought! Oh, shame on you. Billy! 
Poor old Ingleby!” 

^*It is a lie,” repeated Billy, doggedly, 

'’‘But look,” objected Ronaldj, unfolding 


WHAT BILLY KNEW 


291 


the telegram. ''Here you are. 'Veritas' 
What do you make of that?'’ 

‘Weritas be hanged!” said Billy. "It’s 
a lie; and we ’ve got to find out what damned 
rascal has sent it.” 

"But what possible reason have you to 
throw doubt on it? ” inquired Ronald, gravely. 

"Oh, confound you!” burst out Billy at 
last; " I picked up the pieces ! ” 


A very nervous white-faced young man sat 
in the green leather armchair in Dr. Brand’s 
consulting-room. He had shown the telegram, 
and jerked out a few incoherent sentences; 
after which Sir Deryck, by means of carefully 
chosen questions, had arrived at the main 
facts. He now sat at his table considering 
them. 

Then, turning in his revolving-chair, he 
looked steadily at Billy. 

"Cathcart,” he said, quietly, "what reason 
have you for being so certain of Lord Ingleby’s 


292 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


death, and that this telegram is therefore a 
forgery?*' 

Billy moistened his lips. confound 

it ! " he said. I picked up the pieces ! " 

'"I see," said Sir Deryck; and looked away. 

I have never told a soul," said Billy. It 
is not a pretty story. But I can give you 
details, if you like." 

'*1 think you had better give me details," 
said Sir Deryck, gravely. 

So, with white lips, Billy gave them. 

The doctor rose, buttoning his coat. Then 
he poured out a glass of water and handed it 
to Billy. 

''Come," he said. "Fortunately I know a 
very cute detective from our own London force 
who happens just now to be in Cairo. We must 
go to Scotland Yard for his address, and a code. 
In fact we had better work it through them. 
You have done the right thing, Billy ; and done 
it promptly; but we have no time to lose." 


Twenty-four hours later, the doctor called 


fVHAT BILLY KNEW 


293 


at Shenstone Park. He had telegraphed his 
train requesting to be met by the motor; and 
he now asked the chauffeur to wait at the 
door, in order to take him back to the station. 

'‘I could only come between trains,” he 
explained to Lady Ingleby, ''so you must 
forgive the short notice, and the peremptory 
tone of my telegram. I could not risk missing 
you, I have something of great importance 
to communicate.” 

The doctor waited a moment, hardly 
knowing how to proceed. He had seen 
Myra Ingleby under many varying conditions. 
He knew her well; and she was a woman so 
invariably true to herself, that he expected to 
be able to foresee exactly how she would act 
under any given combination of circumstances. 

In this undreamed of development of Lord 
Ingleby’s return, he anticipated finding her 
gently acquiescent; eagerly ready to resume 
again the duties of wifehood; with no thought 
of herself, but filled with anxious desire in all 
things to please the man who, with his whims 
and fancies, his foibles and ideas, had for nine 


194 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


months passed completely out of her life.. 
Deryck Brand had expected to find Lady 
Ingleby in the mood of a typical April day, 
sunshine and showers rapidly alternating; 
whimsical smiles, succeeded by ready tears; 
then, with lashes still wet, gay laughter at 
sonte mistake of her own, or at incongru- 
ous behaviour on the part of her devoted 
but erratic household; speedily followed 
by pathetic anxiety over her own supposed 
short-comings in view of Lord Ingleby’ s 
requirements on his return. 

Instead of this charming personification of 
unselfish, inconsequent, tender femininity, 
the doctor found him.self confronted by a 
calm cold woman, with hard unseeing eyes; a 
woman in whom something had died; and 
dying, had slain all the best and truest in her 
womanhood. 

‘'Another man,” was the prompt conclusion 
at which the doctorN arrived ; and this con- 
clusion, coupled with the exigency of his own 
pressing engagements, brought him without 
preamble, very promptly to the pointo 


WHAT BILLY KNEW 


295 


‘‘Lady Ingleby,” he said, “a cruel and 
heartless wrong has been done you by a 
despicable scoundrel, for whom no retribution 
would be too severe.” 

“I am perfectly aware of that,” replied 
Lady Ingleby, calmly; “but I fail to under- 
stand, Sir Deryck, why you should consider 
it necessary to come down here in order to 
discuss it.” 

This most unexpected reply for a moment 
completely nonplussed the doctor. But rapid 
mental adjustment formed an important part 
of his professional equipment. 

“I fear we are speaking at cross-purposes,” 
he said, gently. “Forgive me, if I appear to 
have trespassed upon a subject of which I 
have no knowledge whatever. I am referring 
to the telegram received by you yesterday, 
which led you to suppose the report of Lord 
Ingleby’s death was a mistake, and that he 
might shortly be returning home.” 

“My husband is alive,” said Lady Ingleby. 
“He has telegraphed to me from Cairo, and 
T expect him back very soon.” 


296 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


For answer, Deryck Brand drew from his 
pocket-book two telegrams. 

I am bound to tell you at once, dear Lady 
Ingleby,** he said, '‘that you have been 
cruelly deceived. The message from Cairo 
was a heartless fraud, designed in order to 
obtain money. Billy Cathcart had reason to 
suspect its genuineness, and brought it to me. 
I cabled at once to Cairo, with this result.” 

He laid two telegrams on the table before 
her. 

“The first is a copy of one we sent yesterday 
to a detective out there. The second I received 
three hours ago. No one — not even Billy — 
has heard of its arrival. I have brought it 
immediately to you.” 

Lady Ingleby slowly lifted the paper con- 
taining the first message. She read it in 
silence. 

Watch Cook's bank and arrest man person- 
ating Lord Ingleby who will call for draft of 
money. Cable particulars promptly. 

The doctor observed her closely as she laid 


WHAT BILLY KNEW 


m 


down the first message without comment, and 
took up the second. 

Former valet of Lord Inglehy's arrested. 
Confesses to despatch of fraudulent telegram. 
Cable instructions. 

Lady Ingleby folded both papers and laid 
them on the table beside her. The calm 
impassivity of the white face had undergone 
no change. 

^‘It must have been Walker,*’ she said. 

Michael always considered him a scamp and 
shifty; but I delighted in him, because he 
played the banjo quite excellently, and was so 
useful at parish entertainments. Michael 
took him abroad; but had to dismiss him on 
landing. He wrote and told i .e the fact, but 
gave no reasons. Poor Walker! I do not 
wish him pimished, because I know Michael 
would think it was largely my own fault for 
putting banjo-playing before character. If 
Walker had written me a begging letter, I 
should most likely have sent him the money» 
I have a fatal habit of believing in people, and 
of wanting everybody to be happy.” 


298 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


Then, as if these last words recalled a mo- 
mentarily forgotten woimd, the stony apathy 
returned to voice and face. 

“ If Michael is not coming back/’ said Lady 
Ingleby, ''I am indeed alone.” 

The doctor rose, and stood looking down 
upon her, perplexed and sorrowful. 

”Is there not some one who should be told 
immediately of this change of affairs. Lady 
Ingleby?” he asked, gravely. 

'‘No one,” she replied, emphatically. 
” There is nobody whom it concerns intimately, 
excepting myself. And not many know of the 
arrival of yesterday’s news. I wrote to Jane, 
and I suppose the boys told it at Overdene. 
If by any char - e it gets into the papers, we 
must send a contradiction; but no explana- 
tion, please. I dislike the publication of 
wrong doing. It only leads to imitation and 
repetition. Beside, even a poor worm of a 
valet should be shielded if possible from public 
execration. We could not explain the ex- 
tenuating circumstances . ’ ’ 

“I do not suppose the news has become 


WHAT BILLY KNEW 


299 


widely known/', said the doctor. '‘Your 
household heard it, of course?" 

''Yes," replied Lady Ingleby. "Ah, that 
reminds me, I must stop operations in the 
shrubbery and plantation. There is no object 
in little Peter having a grave, when his master 
has none." 

This was absolutely unintelligible to the 
doctor; but at such times he never asked 
unnecessary questions, for his own enlight- 
enment. 

"So after all. Sir Deryck," added Lady 
Ingleby, "Peter was right." 

"Yes," said the doctor, "little Peter was 
not mistaken." 

"Had I remembered him, I might have 
doubted the telegram," remarked Lady 
Ingleby. "What can have aroused Billy's 
suspicions? " 

"Like Peter," said the doctor, "Billy had, 
from the first, felt very sure. Do not mention 
to him that I told you the doubts originated 
with him. He is a sensitive lad, and the whole 
thing has greatly distressed him." 


300 THE MiSTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


''Dear Billy/' said Lady Ingleby. 

The doctor glanced at the clock, and 
buttoned his coat. He had one minute to 
spare. 

"My friend," he said, "a second time I 
have come as the bearer of evil tidings." 

"Not evil," replied Myra, in a tone of hope- 
less sadness. "This is not a world to which 
we could possibly desire the return of one we 
love." 

"There Is nothing wrong with the world," 
said the doctor. "Our individual heaven or 
hell is brought about by our own actions." 

"Or by the actions of others," amended 
Lady Ingleby, bitterly. 

"Or by the actions of others," agreed the 
doctor. "But, even then, we cannot be 
completely happy, unless we are true to our 
best selves; nor wholly miserable, unless to 
our own ideals we become false. I fear I 
must be off; but I do not like leaving you 
thus alone." 

Lady Ingleby glanced at the clock, rose, and 
gave him her hand. 



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WHAT BILLY KNEW 


30 ( 

“You have been more than kind, Sir 
Deryck, in coming to me yourself. I shall 
never forget it. And I am expecting Jane 
Champion — Dalmain, I mean; why do one’s 
friends get married? — any minute. She is 
coming direct from town; the phaeton has 
gone to the station to meet her.” 

“Good,” said the doctor, and clasped her 
hand with the strong silent sympathy of a 
man who, desiring to help, yet realises him- 
self in the presence of a grief he is powerless 
eith tr to imderstand or to assuage. 

“Good — ^very good,” he said, as he stepped 
into the motor, remarking to the chauffeur: 
“We have nine minutes; and if we miss the 
train, I must ask you to run me up to town.” 

And he said it a third time, even more 
emphatically, when he had recovered from his 
surprise at that which he saw as the motor 
flew down the avenue. For, after passing 
Lady Ingleby’s phaeton returning from the 
station empty excepting for a travelling coat 
and alligator bag left upon the seat, he saw 
the Honourable Mrs. Dalmain walking slowly 


302 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


beneath the trees, in earnest conversation with 
a very tall man, who carried his hat, letting 
the breeze blow through his thick rumpled 
hair. Both were too preoccupied to notice 
the motor, but as the man turned his haggard 
face toward his companion, the doctor saw in^ 
it the same stony look of hopeless despair, 
which had grieved and baffled him in Lady 
Ingleby’s. The two were slowly wending 
their way toward the house, by a path leading 
down to the terrace. 

‘'Evidently — the man,” thought the doctor. 
“Well, I am glad Jane has him in tow. Poor 
soiils! Providence has placed them in wise 
hands. If faithful counsel and honest plain- 
speaking can avail them anything, they will im- 
doubtedly receive both, from our good Jane.” 

Providence also arranged that the London 
express was one minute late, and the doctor 
caught it. Whereat the chaiiffeur rejoiced; 
for he was “walking out” with Her ladyship's 
maid, whose evening off it chanced to be. 
The all-important events of life are apt to 
hang upon the happenings of one minute. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


‘ MRS. DALMAIN REVIEWS THE SITUATION 

“QO you see, Jane,” concluded Lady Ingle- 
by, pathetically, ”as Michael is not 
coming back, I am indeed alone.” 

” Loving Jim Airth as you do — ” said Jane 
Dalmain. 

''Did,” interposed Lady Ingleby. 

"Did, and do,” said Jane Dalmain, "you 
would have been worse than alone if Michael 
had, after all, come back. Oh, Myra! I 
cannot imagine anything more imendurable, 
than to love one man, and be obliged to live 
with another.” 

"I should not have allowed myself to go on 
loving Jim,” said Lady Ingleby. 

"Rubbish!” pronounced Mrs. Dalmain, 
with forceful decision. " My dear Myra, that 

kind of remark paves the way for the devil, and 
303 


304 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


is one of his favourite devices. More good 
women have been tripped by over-confidence 
in their ability to curb and to control their 
own affections, than by direct temptation to 
love where love is not lawful. Men are differ- 
ent ; their temptations are not so subtle. They 
know exactly to what it will lead, if they dally 
with sentiment. Therefore, if they mean 
to do the right thing in the end, they keep 
clear of the danger at the beginning. We 
cannot possibly forbid ourselves to go on 
loving, where love has once been allowed to 
reign supreme. I know you would not, in the 
first instance, have let yourself care for Jim 
Airth, had you not been free. But, once lov- 
ing him, if so appalling a situation could have 
arisen as the imexpected return of your 
husband, your only safe and honourable 
course would have been to frankly tell Lord 
Ingleby: 'I grew to love Jim Airth while I 
believed you dead. I shall always love Jim 
Airth; but^ I want before all else to be a good 
woman and a faithful wife. Trust me to be 
faithful; help me to be good.' Any man, 


THE SITUATION REVIEWED 305 


jp7orth his salt, would respond to such an 
appeal.” 

And shoot himself?’’ suggested Lady 


Ingleby. 

[ “I saic 
iMr 


said 'man,’ not 'coward,’” responded 
rs. Dalmain, with fine scorn, 
j ''Jane, you are so strong-minded,” mur- 
mured Lady Ingleby. "It goes with your 
llinen collars, your tailor-made coats, and your 
big boots. I cannot picture myself in a 
llinen collar, nor can I conceive of myself as 
Standing before Michael and informing him 
that I loved Jim!” 

Jane Dalmain laughed good-humouredly, 
plunged her large hands into the pockets of her 
Itweed coat, stretched out her serviceable brown 
boots and looked at them. 

"If by 'strong-minded’ you mean a whole- 
some dislike to the involving of a straight- 
forward situation in a tangle of disingenuous 
sophistry, I plead guilty,” she said. 

"Oh, don’t quote vSir Deryck,” retorted 
Lady Ingleby, crossly. "You ought to have 
married him! I never could understand such 


306 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


an artist, such a poet, such an eclectic idealist 
as Garth Dalmain, falling in love with youy 
Jane!'' 

A sudden light of womanly tenderness 
illumined Jane's plain face. ''The wife" 
looked out from it, in simple unconscious 
radiance. 

"Nor could I," she answered softly. "It 
took me three years to realise it as an in- 
dubitable fact." 

"I suppose you are very happy," remarked 
Myra. 

Jane was silent. There were shrines in that 
strong nature too wholly sacred to be easily 
unveiled. 

"I remember how I hated the idea, after 
the accident," said Myra, "of your tying 
yourself to blindness." 

"Oh, hush," said Jane Dalmain, quickly. 
"You tread on sacred ground, and you forget 
to remove your shoes. From the first, the 
sweetest thing between my husband and 
myself has been that, together, we learned to 
kiss that cross." 


THE SITUATION REVIEWED 


m 


*‘Dear old thing!” said Lady Ingleby, 
affectionately; “you deserved to be happy » 
All the same I never can understand why 
you did not marry Deryck Brand.” 

Jane smiled. She could not bring herself 
to discuss her husband, but she was very 
willing at this critical juncture to divert Lady 
Ingleby from her own troubles by entering 
into particulars concerning herself and the 
doctor. 

“My dear,” she said, “Deryck and I were 
far too much alike ever to have dovetailed 
into marriage. All our points would have 
met, and our differences gaped wide. The 
qualities which go to the making of a perfect 
friendship by no means always ensiue a 
perfect marriage. There was a time when I 
should have married Deryck had he asked me 
to do so, simply because I implicitly trusted 
his judgment in all things, and it would never 
have occurred to me to refuse him anything 
he asked. But it would not have resulted in 
our mutual happiness. Also, at that time, I 
had no idea what love really meant. I do 


308 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


more tinderstood love until — until Garth 
taught me, than you understood it before you 
met Jim Airth. 

''I wish you would not keep on alluding to 
Jim Airth,’’ said Myra, wearily. ''I never 
wish to hear his name again. And I cannot 
allow you to suppose that I should ever have 
adopted your strong-minded suggestion, and 
admitted to Michael that I loved Jim. I 
should have done nothing of the kind. I 
should have devoted myself to pleasing 
Michael in all things, and made my self -- 
yes, Jane; you need not look amused and 
incredulous; though I don't wear collars and 
shooting-boots, I can make myself do things — 
I should have made myself forget that there 
was such a person in this world as the Earl 
of Airth and Monteith.” 

**Oh spare him that!” laughed Mrs. Dai- 
main. Don’t call the poor man by his titles. 
If he must be hanged, at least let him hang as 
plain Jim Airth. If one had to be wicked, it 
/ would be so infinitely worse to be a wicked 
I earl, than wicked in any other walk of life. 


THE SITUATION REVIEWED 


309 


ilt savours so painfully of the ‘penny-dreadful’, 
or the cheap novelette. Also, my dear, there 
is nothing to be gained by discussing a 
hypothetical situation, with which you do 
not after all find yourself confronted. Merci- 
fully, Lord Ingleby is not coming back.” 

“Mercifully!” exclaimed Lady Ingleby. 
“Really, Jane, you are crude beyond words, 
and most imsympathetic. You should have 
heard how tactfully the doctor broke it to me, 
and how kindly he alluded to my loss.” 

“My dear Myra,” said Mrs. Dahnain, “I 
don’t waste sympathy on false sentiment. 
And if Deryck had known you were already 
engaged to another man, instead of devoting 
to you four hours of his valuable time, he 
could have sent a sixpenny wire: ‘Telegram a 
forgery. Accept heartfelt congratulations 1 ’ ” 

“Jane, you are brutal. And seeing that I 
have just told you the whole story of these 
last weeks, wdth the cruel heart-breaking 
finale of yesterday, I fail to tmderstand how 
you can speak of me as engaged to another 


310 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


Instantly Jane Dalmain’s whole bearing al- 
tered. She ceased looking quizzically amused, 
and left off swinging her brown boot. She 
sat up, uncrossed her knees, and leaning her 
elbows upon them, held out her large capable 
hands to Lady Ingleby. Her noble face, 
grandly strong and tender, in its undeniable 
plainness, was full of womanly imderstanding 
and sympathy. 

‘‘Ah, my dear,** she said, “now we must 
come to the crux of the whole matter. I have 
merely been playing around the fringe of the 
subject, in order to give you time to recover 
from the inevitable strain of the long and 
painful recital you have felt it necessary to 
make, in order that I might fully understand 
your position in all its bearings. The real 
question is this: Are you going to forgive Jim 
Airth?** 

“I must never forgive him,** said Lady 
Ingleby, with ^nality, “because, if I forgave 
him, I could not let him go.** 

“Why let him go, when his going leaves your 
whole life desolate?** 


I 

j THE SITUATION REVIEIVED 311 

^ ''Because/' said Myra, '‘I feel I could not 
;rust him; and I dare not marry a man whom 
ik love as I love Jim Airth, unless I can trust 
ym as implicitly as I trust my God. If I 
loved him less, I would take the risk. But 
f feel, for him, something which I can neither 
understand nor define; only I know that in 
time it would make him so completely master 
of me that, imless I could trust him absolutely 
— I should be afraid." 

"Is a man never to be trusted again," 
asked Jane, "because, under sudden fierce 
temptation, he has failed you once? " 

. "It is not the failing once, " said Myra. " It 
is the light thrown upon the whole quality of 
his love — of that kind of love. The passion of 
it makes it selfish — selfish to the degree of 
being utterly regardless of right and wrong, 
and careless of the welfare of its unfortunate 
bbject. My fair name would have been 
smirched; my honour dragged in the mire; 
my present, blighted; my future, ruined; but 
what did he care? It was all swept aside in 
the one sentence: 'You are mine, not his. 


312 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


You must come away with me.’ I canno' 
trust myself to a love which has no standarc 
of right and wrong. We look at it froir 
different points of view. You see only the 
man and his temptation. I knew the priceless 
treasure of the love; therefore the sin againsi 
that love seems to me unforgivable.” 

Mrs. Dalmain looked earnestly at her friend. 
Her steadfast eyes were deeply troubled. 

‘^Myra,” she said, ^‘you are absolutely 
right in your definitions, and correct in yotu 
conclusions. But your mistake is this. You 
make no allowance for the sudden, desperate, 
overwhelming nature of the temptation before 
which Jim Airth fell. Remember all that led 
up to it. Think of it, Myra! He stood so 
alone in the world; no mother, no wife, no 
woman’s tenderness. And those ten hard 
years of worse than loneliness, when he fought 
the horrors of disillusion, the shame of be- 
trayal, the bitterness of desertion; the humili-' 
ation of the stain upon his noble name. 
Against all this, during ten long years, he 
struggled; fought a manful fight, and over- 


j the situ a tion reviewed 3 1 3 

jjDame. Then — strong, hardened, lonely; a 

I 'man grown to man’s full heritage of self- 
i contained independence — ^he met you, Myra. 
'His ideals returned, purified and strengthened 
j jby their passage through the fire. Love came, 
jmow, in such gigantic force, that the pigmy 
i [passion of early yout’i was dwarfed and 
I iSuperseded. It seemed a new and untasted 
i experience such as he had not dreamed life 
could contain. Three weeks of it, he had; 
^Igrowing in certainty, increasing in richness, 

^ every day ; yet tempered by the patient waiting 
'your pleasure, for eagerly expected fulfilment. 
j;Then the blow — so terrible to his sensibilities 
I and to his manly pride ; the horrible knowledge 
that his own hand had brought loss and sorrow 
I to you, whom he would have shielded from 
the faintest shadow of pain. Then his mistake 
i in allowing false pride to come between you. 
Three weeks of growing hunger and regret, 
followed by your summons, which seemed 
to promise happiness after all ; for, remember 
while you had been bringing yourself to ac- 
i quiesce in his decision as absolutely final, so 


3 1 4 THE MISTRESS OF SHEN STONE 


that the news of Lord Ingleby's return meant 
no loss to you and to him, merely the relief 
of his exculpation, he had been coming roimd 
to a more reasonable point of view, and 
realising that, after all, he had not lost you. 
You sent for him, and he came — once more 
aglow with love and certainty — only to hear 
that he had not only lost you himself, but 
must leave you to another man. Oh Myra! 
Can you not make allowance for a moment of 
fierce madness? Can you not see that the 
very strength of the man momentarily tiurned 
in the wrong direction, brought about his 
downfall? You tell me you called him 
coward and traitor? You might as well have 
struck him! Such words from yoiur lips must 
have been worse than blows. I admit he 
deserved them; yet Saint Peter was thrice a 
coward and a traitor, but his Lord, making 
allowance for a sudden yielding to temptation, 
did not doubt the loyalty of his love, but gave 
him a chance of threefold public confession, 
and forgave him. If Divine Love could do 
this — oh, Myra, can you let yoiu: lover go out 


THE SITUATION REVIEWED 


3B 


into the world again, alone, without one word 
of forgiveness? 

‘’How do I know he wants my forgiveness, 
Jane? He left me in a towering fury. And 
how could my forgiveness reach him, even 
supposing he desired it, or I could give it? 
WHiere is he now?” 

“ He left you in despair,” said Mrs. Dalmain* 
‘and — ^he is in the library.” 

Lady Ingleby rose to her feet. 

“Jane! Jim Airth in this house! Who 
admitted him?” 

“I did,” replied Mrs. Dalmain, coolly. “I 
smuggled him in. Not a soul saw us enter. 
That was v/hy I sent the carriage on ahead, 
when we reached the park gates. We walked 
up the avenue, turned down on to the terrace 
and slipped in by the lower door. He has 
been sitting in the library ever since. If you 
decide not to see him, I can go down and tell 
him so; he can go out as he came in, and none 
of your household will know he has been here. 
Dear Myra, don’t look so distraught. Do 
sit down again, and let us finish our talk. . . . 


3 1 6 THE MISTRESS OF SHEN STONE 


That is right. You must not be hurried. A 
decision which affects one’s whole life, cannot 
be made in a minute, nor even in an hotir. 
Lord Airth does not wish to force an interview, 
nor do I wish to persuade you to grant him one. 
He will not be surprised if I bring him word 
that you would rather not see him.” 

” Rather not?” cried Myra, with clasped 
hands. ‘*0h Jane, if you could know what 
the mere thought of seeing him means to me, 
you wouldnot say father not,’ but ‘dare not. ’ 

“Let me tell you how we met,” said Mrs. 
Dalmain, ignoring the last remark. “I reached 
Charing Cross in good time; stopped at the 
book stall for a supply of papers; secured an 
empty compartment, and settled down to 
a quiet hour. Jim Airth dashed into the 
station with barely one minute in which to 
take his ticket and reach the train. He tore 
up the platform, as the train began to move; 
had not time to reach a smoker; wrenched 
open the door of my compartment; jumped in 
headlong, and sat down upon my papers; 
turned to apologise, and foimd himself shut 


THE SITUATION REVIEWED 


317 


in alone for an hour with the friend to whom 
you had written weekly letters from Cornwall, 
and of whom you had apparently told him 
rather nice things — or, at all events things 
which led him to consider me trustworthy. 
He recognised me by a recent photograph 
which you had shown him.” 

remember,” said Myra. kept it in 
my writing-case. He took it up and looked 
at it several times. I often spoke to him of 
you.” 

*^He introduced himself with straight- 
forward simplicity,” continued Mrs. Dalmain, 
‘'and then — ^we neither of us knew quite how 
it happened — in a few minutes we were talk- 
ing without reserve. I believe he felt frank- 
ness with me on his part might enable me, 
in the future, to be a comfort to you — you are 
his one thought; also, that if I interceded, you 
would perhaps grant him that which he came 
to seek — the opportunity to ask your forgive- 
ness. Of course we neither of us had the 
slightest idea of the possibility that yesterday’s 
telegram could be incorrect. He sails for 


3 1 8 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


America almost immediately, but coiild not 
bring himself to leave England without 
having expressed to you his contrition, and 
obtained your pardon. He would have 
written, but did not feel he ought, for your 
sake, to nm the risk of putting explanations 
on to paper. Also I honestly believe it is 
breaking his heart, poor fellow, to feel that 
you and he parted forever, in anger. His 
love for you is a very great love, Myra.'' 

‘‘Oh, Jane," cried Ladyingleby, “I cannot 
let him go! And yet — I cannot marry him. 
I love him with every fibre of my whole being, 
and yet I cannot trust him. Oh, Jane, what 
shall I do?" 

“You must give him a chance," said Mrs. 
Dalmain, “to retrieve his mistake, and to 
prove himself the man we know him to be. 
Say to him, without explanation, what you 
have just said to me: that you cannot let him 
go; and see how he takes it. Listen, Myra. 
The unforeseen developments of the last few 
hours have put it into your power to give 
Jim Airth his chance. You must not rob 


mE SITUATION REVIEWED 


319 


him of it. Years ago, when Garth and I were 
in an apparently hopeless tangle of irretriev- 
able mistake, Deryck found us a way out. 
He said if Garth could go behind his blindness 
and express an opinion which he only could 
have given while he had his sight, the question 
might be solved. I need not trouble you with 
details, but that was exactly what happened, 
and our great happiness resulted. Now, in 
your case, Jim Airth must be given the 
chance to go behind his madness, regain his 
own self-respect, and prove himself worthy 
of your trust. Have you told any one of the 
. second telegram from Cairo?” 

'‘I saw nobody,” said Lady Ingleby, “from 
the moment Sir Deryck left me, imtil you 
walked in.” 

“Very well. Then you, and Deryck, and 
I, are the only people in England who know 
of it. Jim Airth will have no idea of any 
change of conditions since yesterday. Do 
you see what that means, Myra?” 

Lady Ingleby’s pale face flushed. “Oh 
Jane, I dare not! If he failed again ” 


320 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


‘‘He will not fail/' replied Mrs. Dalmain, 
with decision; '"but should he do so, he will 
have proved himself, as you say, imworthy 
of your trust. Then— you can forgive him, 
and let him go." 

I cannot let him go ! " cried Myra. “And 
yet I cannot marry him, unless he is all I have 
believed him to be." 

“Ah, my dear, my dear!" said Mrs. Dal- 
main, tenderly. “You need to learn a lesson 
about married life. True happiness does not 
come from manying an idol throned on a 
pedestal. Before Galatea could wed Pyg- 
malion, she had to change from marble into 
glowing flesh and blood, and step down from 
' off her pedestal. Love should not make us 
blind to one another's faults. It should only 
i make us infinitely tender, and completely im- 
derstanding. Let me tell you a shrewd remark 
of Aimt Georgina's on that subject. Speaking 
to a yotmg married woman who considered her- 
self wronged and disillusioned because, the 
honeymoon over, she discovered her husband 
not to be in all things absolutely perfect: ‘Ah, 


THE SITUATION REVIEWED 


321 


my good girl/ said Aimt ’Gina, rapping the 
floor with her ebony cane; ‘you made a foolish 
mistake if you imagined you were marrying an 
angel, when we have it, on the very highest au- 
thority, that the angels neither marry nor are 
given in marriage. Men and women, who are 
human enough to marry, are human enough to 
be full of faults ; and the best thing marriage 
provides is that each gets somebody who will 
love, forgive, and understand. If you had 
waited for perfection, you would have reached 
heaven a spinster, which would have been, to 
say the least of it, dull — ^when you had had the 
chance of matrimony on earth ! Go and make 
it up with that nice boy of yours, or I shall find 
him some pretty — ’ But the little bride, her 
anger dissolving in laughter and tears, had 
fled across the lawn in pursuit of a tall figure 
in tweeds, stalking in solitary dudgeon to- 
wards the river. They disappeared into the 
boathouse, and soon after we saw them in a 
tiny skiff for two, and heard their happy 
laughter. ‘Silly babies!’ said Aunt ’Gina, 
crossly, ‘ they ’ll do it once too often, when 


322 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


I 'm not there to spank them; and then 
i there ’ll be a shipwreck! Oh, why did Adam 
j marry, and spoil that peaceful garden?' 
Whereat Tommy, the old scarlet macaw, 
swung head downwards from his golden 
perch, with such shrieks of delighted laughter, 
mingled with appropriate profanity, that 
Aunt 'Gina’s good-humour was instantly 
restored. ^Give him a strawberry, somebody! ’ 
she said; and spoke no more on things matri- 
monial.” 

Myra laughed. **The duchess’s views are 
always refreshing. I wonder whether Michael 
and I made the mistake of not realising each 
other to be human; of not admitting there 
was anything to forgive, and therefore never 
forgiving?” 

”Well, don’t make it with Jim Airth,” 
advised Mrs. Dalmain, ”for he is the most 
human man I ever met; also the strongest, 
and one of the most lovable. Myra, there is 
nothing to be gained by waiting. Let me 
send him to you now; and, remember, all he 
asks or expects is one word of forgiveness.” 


THE SITUATION REVIEWED 


323 


Jane!’* cried Lady Ingleby, with 
clasped hands. wait a little while. 

Give me time to think ; time to consider ; time 
to decide.” 

''Nonsense, my dear,” said Mrs. Dalmain. 
"When but one right course lies before you, 
there can be no possible need for hesitation or 
consideration. You are merely nervously 
postponing the inevitable. You remind me 
of scenes we used to have in the out-patient 
department of a hospital in the East End of 
London, to which I once went for training. 
When patients came to the surgery for teeth 
extraction, and the pretty sympathetic little 
nurse in charge had got them safely fixed into 
the chair; as one of the doctors, prompt 
and alert, came forward with unmistakably 
business-like forceps ready, the terrified pa- 
tient would exclaim: 'Oh, let the nurse do 
it! Let the nurse do it!’ the idea evidently 
being that three or four diffident pulls by the 
nurse, were less alarming than the sharp 
certainty of one from the doctor. Now, my 
dear Myra, you have to face your ordeal. 


324 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


If it is to be successful there must be no 
uncertainty/' 

‘'Oh, Jane, I wish you were not such a 
decided person. I am sure when you were the 
nurse, the poor things preferred the doctors. 
I am terrified ; yet I know you are right. And, 
oh, you dear, don't leave me! See me 
through." 

“I am never away from Garth for a night, 
as you know," said Mrs. Dalmain. “But he 
and little Geoff went down to Overdene this 
morning, with Simpson and nurse; so, if your 
man can motor me over during the evening, I 
will stay as long as you need me." 

“Ah, thanks," said Lady Ingleby. “And 
now, Jane, you have done all you can for me; 
and God knows how much that means. I 
want to be quite alone for an hour. I feel 
I must face it out, and decide what I really 
intend doing. I owe it to Jim, I owe it to 
myself, to be quite sure what I mean to say, 
before I see him. Order tea in the library. 
Tell him I will see him; and, at the end of the 
hour, send him here. But, Jane — not a hint 


THE SITUATION REVIEWED 


325 


[ 


of anything which has passed between us. I 
may rely on you?’' 

“My dear,” said Mrs. Dalmain, gently, 
“I play the game!” 

She rose and stood on the hearthrug, looking 
intently at her husband’s painting of Lord 
Ingleby. 

“And, Myra,” she said at last, “ I do entreat 
you to remember, you are dealing with an 
unknown quantity. You have never before 
known intimately a man of Jim Airth’s 
temperament. . His love for you, and yours 
for him, hold elements as yet not fully imder- 
stood by you. Remember this, in drawing 
your conclusions. I had almost said. Let 
instinct guide, rather than reason.” 

“I imderstand your meaning,” said Lady 
Ingleby. “But I dare not depend upon 
either instinct or reason. I have not been a 
religious woman, Jane, as of course you know; 
but — I have been learning lately; and, as I 
learn, I try to practise. I feel myself to be in 
so dark and difficult a place, that I am 
trying to say, 'Even there shall Thy hand 


326 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


lead me, and Thy right Hand shall hold 
me. 

Ah, you are right,'' said Jane's deep earn- 
est voice; ''that is the best of all. God's hand 
alone leads surely, out of darkness into light." 

She put a kind arm firmly around her friend, 
for a moment. 

Then: — " I will send him to you in an hour," 
she said, and left the room. 

Lady Ingleby was alone. 


CHAPTER XXV 

THE TEST 

'T^HE door of Myra’s sitting-room opened 
^ quietly, and Jim Airth came in. 

She awaited him upon the couch, sitting 
very still, her hands folded in her lap. 

The room seemed full of flowers, and of soft 
sunset light. 

He closed the door, and came and stood 
before her. 

For a few moments they looked steadily 
into one another’s faces. 

Then Jim Airth spoke, very low. 

‘^It is so good of you to see me,” he said. 
“It is almost more than I had ventured to 
hope. I am leaving England in a few hours. 
It would have been hard to go — ^without this. 
Now it wiU be easy.” 


327 


328 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


She lifted her eyes to his, and waited in 
silence. 

'‘Myra,’* he said, "can you forgive me?” 

" I do not know, Jim,” she answered, gently. 
" I want to be quite honest with you, and with 
myself. If I had cared less, I could have 
forgiven more easily.” 

know,” he said. "Oh, M3rra, I know. 
And I would not have you forgive lightly, so 
great a sin against our love. But, dear — ^if, 
before I go, you could say, 'I understand,’ 
it would mean almost more to me, than if you 
said, 'I forgive.’ ” 

"Jim,” said Myra, gently, a tremor of 
tenderness in her sweet voice, "I understand.” 

He came quite near, and took her hands in 
his, holding them for a moment, with tender 
reverence. 

"Thank you, dear,” he said. "You are 
very good.” 

He loosed her hands, and again she folded 
them in her lap. He walked to the mantel- 
piece and stood looking down upon the ferns 
and mies. 


THE TEST 


329 


She marked the stoop of his broad shoulders; 
the way in which he seemed to find it difficult 
to hold up his head. Where was the proud gay 
carriage of the man who swung along the 
Cornish cliffs, whistling like a blackbird? 

‘"Jim,” she said, “ imderstanding fully, of 
course I forgive fully, if it is possible that 
between you and me, forgiveness should pass. 
I have been thinking it over, since I knew you 
were in the house, and wondering why I feel 
it so impossible to say, ‘I forgive you.’ And, 
Jim — I think it is because you and I are so 
one that there is no room for such a thing as 
forgiveness to pass from me to you, or from 
you to me. Complete comprehension and 
unfailing love, take the place of what would 
be forgiveness between those who were less 
to each other.” 

He lifted his eyes, for a moment, full of a 
dumb anguish, which wnmg her heart. 

''Myra, I must go,” he said, brokenly. 
"There was so much I had to tell you; so much 
to explain. But all need of this seems swept 
away by your divine tenderness and compre- 


330 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


hension. All my life through I shall carry 
with me, deep hidden in my heart, these words 
of yours. Oh, my dear — my dear! Don’t 
speak again! Let them be the last. Only — 
may I say it? — never let thoughts of me, 
sadden yoiu* fair life. I am going to America 
— a grand place for fresh beginnings; a land 
where one can work, and truly live; a land 
where earnest endeavour meets with fullest 
success, and where a man’s energy may have 
full scope. I want you to think of me, Myra, 
as living, and working, and striving; not going 
under. But, if ever I feel like going under, 
I shall hear your dear voice singing at my 
shoulder, in the little Cornish chirrch, on the 
quiet Sabbath evening, in the sunset : * Eternal 
Father, strong to save.’ . . . And — ^when 
I think of you, my dear — my dear; I shall 
know your life is being good and beautiful 
every hour, and that you are happy with — ” 
he lifted his eyes to Lord Ingleby’s portrait; 
they dwelt for a moment on the kind quiet 
face — “with one of the best of men,” said 
Jim Airth, bravely 


THE TEST 


331 


He took a last look at her face. Silent tears 
stole slowly down it, and fell upon her folded 
hands. 

A spasm of anguish shot across Jim Airth's 
set features. 

“Ah, I must go,’’ he said, suddenly. “God 
keep you, always.’’ 

He turned so quickly, that his hand was 
actually upon the handle of the door, before 
Myra reached him, though she sprang up, 
and flew across the room. 

^ ‘ Jim, ’ ’ she said, breathlessly. * ^ Stop, Jim ! 
Ah, stop! Listen! Wait! — ^Jim, I have al- 
ways known — I told Jane so — ^that if I for- 
gave you, I could not let you go.’’ She 
flung her arms around his neck, as he stood 
gazing at her in dumb bewilderment. “Jim, 
my beloved! I cannot let you go; or, if you 
go, you must take me with you. I cannot live 
without you, Jim Airth!” 

For the space of a dozen heart-beats he 
stood silent, while she hung around him; her 
head upon his breast, her clinging arms about 
his neck. 


332 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


Then a cry so terrible burst from him, that 
Myra’s heart stood still. 

''Oh, my God,” he cried, "this is the worst 
of all! Have I, in falling, dragged her down? 
Now, indeed am I broken — ^broken. What 
was the loss of my own pride, my own honour, 
my own self-esteem, to this? Have I soiled 
her fair whiteness; weakened the noble 
strength of her sweet purity? Oh, not this — 
my God, not this!” 

He lifted his hands to his neck, took hers 
by the wrists, and forcibly drew them down, 
stepping back a pace, so that she must lift 
her head. 

Then, holding her hands against his breast: 
"Lady Ingleby,” he said, "lift your eyes, 
and look into my face.” 

Slowly — slowly — Myra lifted her grey eyes. 
The fire of his held her; she felt the strength 
of him mastering her, as it had often done 
before. She could scarcely see the anguish in 
his face, so vivid was the blaze of his blue eyes. 

"Lady Ingleby,” he said, and the grip of 
his hands on hers, tightened. " Lady Ingleby 


THE TEST 


333 


— ^we stood like this together, you and I, on a 
fast narrowing strip of sand. The cruel sea 
swept up, relentless. A high cliff rose in 
front — our only refuge. I held you thus, and 
said: ‘ We must climb — or drown.' Do you 
remember? — I say it now, again. The oiily 
possible right thing to do is steep and difficult ; 
but we must climb. We must mount above 
our lower selves; away from this narrowing 
strip of dangerous sand; away from this cruel 
sea of fierce temptation; up to the breezy 
cliff -top, up to the blue above, into the open 
of honour and right and perfect purity. You 
stood there, imtil now; you stood there — ^brave 
and "beautiful. I dragged you down — God 
forgive me, I brought you into danger — Hush! 
listen! You must climb again; you must 
climb alone; but when I am gone, your climb- 
ing will be easy. You will soon find yourself 
standing, safe and high, above these treacher- 
ous dangerous waters. Forgive me, if I seem 
rough." He forced her gently backwards to 
the couch. “Sit there," he said, “and do not 
rise, imtil I have left the house. And if ever 


334 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


these moments come back to you, Lady 
Ingleby, remember, the whole blame was 
mine. . . . Hush, I tell you; hush! And 
will you loose my hands?’' 

But Myra clung to those big hands, laugh- 
ing, and weeping, and striving to speak. 

‘'Oh, Jim — ^my Jim! — ^you can’t leave me 
to climb alone, because I am all your own, and 
free to be yours and no other man’s, and to- 
gether, thank God, we can stand on the cliff- 
top where His hand has led us. Dearest — 
Jim, dearest — don’t pull away from me, 
because I must cling on, until you have read 
these telegrams. Oh, Jim, read them quickly! 
... Sir Deryck Brand brought them down 
from town this afternoon. And oh, forgive 
me that I did not tell you at once. ... I 
wanted you to prove yourself, what I knew 
you to be, faithful, loyal, honourable, brave, 
the man of all men whom I trust ; the man who 
will never fail me in the upward climb, until 
we stand together beneath the blue on the 
heights of God’s eternal hills. . . . Oh, 
Jim ” 


THE TEST 


335 


Her voice faltered into silence; for Jim 
Airth knelt at her feet, his head in her lap, 
his arms flung around her, and he was sobbing 
as only a strong man can sob, when his heart 
has been strained to breaking point, and sud- 
den relief has come. 

Myra laid her hands, gently, upon the 
roughness of his hair. Thus they stayed 
long, without speaking or moving. 

I And in those sacred minutes Myra learned 
{the lesson which ten years of wedded life had 
/failed to teach: that in the strongest man there 
\iSj sometimes, the eternal child — eager, master- 
jful, dependent, full of needs; and that, in every 
[woman’s love there must therefore be an 
[element of the eternal mother — tender, under- 
standing, patient; wise, yet self-surrendering ; 
able to bear; ready to forgive; her strength 
made perfect in weakness. 

At length Jim Airth lifted his head. 

The last beams of the setting sun, entering 
through the western window, illumined, with 
a ray of golden glory, the lovely face above 
him. But he saw on it a radiance more 


336 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


bright than the reflected glory of any earthly 
sunset. 

'^Myra?” he said, awe and wonder in his 
voice. ‘ ' Myra ? What is it ? ” 

And clasping her hands about his neck as 
he knelt before her, she drew his head to her 
breast, and answered: 

I have learnt a lesson, my belovM; a lesson 
only you could teach. And I am very happy 
and thankful, Jim; because I know, that at 
last, I — even I — am ready for wifehood/’ 


CHAPTER XXVI 

“what shall we write?” 

'^HE hall at the Moorhead Inn seemed 
very home-like to Jim Airth and Myra, 
as they stood together looking around it, 
on their arrival. 

Jim had set his heart upon bringing his 
wife there, on the evening of their wedding 
day. Therefore they had left town immedi- 
ately after the ceremony; dined en route, 
and now stood, as they had so often stood 
before when bidding one another good- 
night, in the lamp-light, beside the marble 
table. 

“Oh, Jim dear,” whispered Myra, throwing 
back her travelling cloak, “does n’t it all seem 
natural? Look at the old clock ! Five minutes 


337 


338 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


past ten. The Miss Mnrgatroyds must have 
gone up, in staid procession, exactly four 
minutes ago. Look at the stag’s head! 
There is the antler, on the topmost point of 
which you always hung your cap.” 

”Myra ” 

”Yes, dear. Oh, I hope the Murgatroyds 
are still here. Let ’s look in the book. . . , 
Yes, see! Here are their names with date of 
arrival, but none of departure. And, oh, 
dearest, here is 'Jim Airth,’ as I first saw it 
written; and look at 'Mrs. O’Mara’ just 
beneath it! How well I remember glancing 
back from the turn of the staircase, seeing you 
come out and read it, and wishing I had writ- 
ten it better. You can set me plenty of copies 
now, Jim.” 

"Myra! ” 

“Yes, dear. Do you know I am going to 
fly up and unpack. Then I will come out to 
the honeysuckle arbour and sit with you while 
you smoke. And we need not mind being late ; 
because the dear ladies, not knowing we have 
returned, will not all be sleeping with doors 


WHAT SHALL WE WRITER " 339 


ajar. But oh Jim, you must — ^however late 
it is — ^plump your boots out into the passage, 
just for the fim of making Miss Susannah’s 
heart jump imexpectedly.” 

* ^ Myra 1 Oh , I say ! My wife 

‘^Yes, darling, I know! But I am perfectly 
certain ‘Aunt Ingleby’ is peeping out of her 
little office at the end of the passage; also, 
Polly has finished helping Sam place our 
luggage upstairs, and I can feel her, hanging 
over the top banisters! Be patient for just a 
little while, my Jim. Let ’s put our names 
in the visitors’ book. What shall we write? 
Really we shall be obliged eventually to let 
them know who you are. Think what an 
excitement for the Miss Murgatroyds. But, 
just for once, I am going to write myself down 
by the name, of all others, I have most wished 
to bear.” 

So, smiling gaily up at her husband, then 
bending over the table to hide her happy face 
from the adoration of his eyes, the newly-made 
Countess of Airth and Monteith took up the 
pen; and, without pausing to remove her glove, 


340 THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE 


wrote in the visitors' book of the Moorhead 
Inn, in the clear bold handwriting peculiarly 
her own: 



Clad— 


\ 


[JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD’S 

I STORIES OF ADVENTURE 

I May b« had wherever books are sold. Ask for firosset ind Dunl«p*t list 

I ^azan 

jL The tale of a “ quarter- strain wolf and three-quarters husky** 
l[ tom between the call of the human and his wild mate. 

I BAREE, SON OF KAZAN 

I The story of the son of the blind Grey Wolf and the gallant 
played in the lives of a man and a woman. 

I THE COURAGE OF CAPTAIN PLUM 

‘t The story of the King of Beaver Island, a Mormon colony, 
I and his battle with Captain Plum, 
j THE DANGER TRAIL 

]■ A tale of snow, of love, of Indian vengeance, and a mystery 
I of the North. 

I THE HUNTED WOMAN 

[ A tale of the “end of the line,** and of a great fight in the 
i “valley of gold’* for a woman. 

j THE FLOWER OF THE NORTH 

; The story of Fort o’ God, where the wild flavor of the wilder- 
i ness is blended with the courtly atmosphere of France. 

! THE GRIZZLY KING 

The story of Thor, the big grizzly who lived in a valley where 
1 ; man had never come. 

1 ISOBEL 

A love story of the Far North. 

THE WOLF HUNTERS 

A thrilling tale of adventure in the Canadian wilderness. 

THE GOLD HUNTERS 
The story of adventure in the Hudson Bay wilds. 

THE COURAGE OF MARGE O’DOONE 

Filled with exciting incidents in the land of strong men and 
women. 

BACK TO GOD’S COUNTRY 
A thrilling story of the Far North. The great Photoplay was 
, made from this book. 


I Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York 


RALPH CONNOR’S STORIES 

OF THE NORTHWEST 

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list 

THE SKY PILOT IN NO MAN^S LAND 

The clean-hearted, strong-limbed man of the West leaves 
his hills and forests to fight the battle for freedom in the 
old world. 

BLACK ROCK 

A story of strong men in the moimtains of the West. 

THE SKY PILOT 

A story of cowboy life, abounding in the freshest humor, 
the truest tenderness and the finest courage. 

THE PROSPECTOR 

A tale of the foothills and of the man who came to them 
to lend a hand to the lonely men and women who needed a 
protector. 

THE MAN FROM GLENGARRY 

This narrative brings us into contact with elemental and 
volcanic human nature and with a hero whose power breathes 
from every word. 

GLENGARRY SCHOOL DAYS 

In this rough country of Glengarry, Ralph Connor has 
found human nature in the rough. 

THE DOCTOR 

The story of a preacher-doctor^* whom big men and 
reckless men loved for his unselfish life among them. 

THE FOREIGNER 

A tale of the Saskatchewan and of a “ foreigner ** who 
made a brave and winning fight for manhood and love. 
CORPORAL CAMERON 

This splendid type of the upright, out-of-door man about 
which Ralph Connor builds all his stories, appears again in 
this book. 


Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York 





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